The Heart of The Leviathan
by Intrepid Bandicoot
Summary: Does the Leviathan of Elizabethian England have a heart? The story picks up at the very end of the events, described in the movie "Elizabeth". Great many thanks to Nytd, my wonderful & dedicated beta reader and friend!
1. Chapter 1

**Part I**

**~o~**

Sir Francis Walsingham straightened in his chair as the clock is his study chimed eleven times. He rubbed his neck tiredly, his eyes still on the document he was pouring over for the last hour: the interrogation transcripts of Lord Norfolk and those who rallied to his cause. Walsingham scrutinized every letter, but it was just a formality. Their guilt was irrefutable and their heads were due to part from their bodies in five days time.

He scanned the list once more: Norfolk, Sussex, Arundel, Gardiner… Such powerful people, they could have flourished under the rule of a wise, capable monarch that Elizabeth was becoming, but instead they chose the path of treason that brought them to the headsman's block. What a waste… Walsingham threw the paper on the table. He stood up and stretched.

Standing in his study, he thought of what to do next. Without a doubt, he felt tired, but he knew only too well that once his head would touch the pillow, he would lie in the darkness of his bedroom for hours, unable to sleep. There was, however, one remedy that always worked without fail, and as appalling as it was, he had no choice. Walsingham sighed and headed for the door.

Coming out of his study, he crossed his sitting room and strolled through the entrance hall. A tall youth, Walsingham's servant, raised noiselessly from his chair, ready to follow. With a brisk gesture of his hand, Walsingham told the boy to remain where he was and exited his quarters. Quiet as a shadow, the lanky figure resumed its place.

Queen Elizabeth chose to keep her spymaster as close to her as she could, therefore granting him residence in one of the largest living quarters the Palace of Whitehall had to offer. Usually, Sir Walsingham spent his time either here, or if the state of the matters allowed, in his house in Greater London. One differed little from the other, since both living arrangements shared one common denominator: loneliness.

Lady Ursula Walsingham, who cared very little for busy life of London and even less for him, preferred to reside in the large estate they owned in Hampshire. In her absence Sir Francis, just like any other man faced with such difficulty, was forced to seek comfort elsewhere. It proved to be rather difficult. As an intelligent, well-read, worldly person, Walsingham tried to find a companion to match him. This endeavor was one of the scarce few in which he had failed, for ladies of the court cared little for philosophers and logic, their minds otherwise occupied with latest fashions and gossip. Another reason was that due to the nature of his duties, it was important for him to remain unattached. Consequently, Walsingham had wisely decided that it would be best to remain satisfied with what he already had instead of lamenting for what he could have had. As the result, his romantic encounters with women were plentiful, but always cut very short and to the point. He did not even allow them to stay overnight.

Underway through the cavernous halls of the palace, he reached into his pocket and procured a ring. It was a large, blood-red garnet set in gold. Walsingham slipped the ring on the middle finger of his left hand and continued on his way. The ring had a special purpose, for he only put it on when he was in need of a liaison. All he had to do was walk through the crowded halls, his left hand at his hip, presenting his garnet to clandestinely inform the ladies of the court that anyone who was willing was welcome to share his bed. He knew well that there was an abundance of female courtiers who waited eagerly for such an invitation. Such abundance, in fact, that he never yet remained without a companion when he desired one.

Walsingham walked on purposefully, sometimes stopping in his tracks to answer a greeting. While he walked, he heard giggling and whispers as women nudged each other, covertly pointing at his garnet ring. After visiting the main areas of assembly, he quickly returned to his quarters. The line was cast and now all he had to do was wait.

"Jerome?" he called out. His servant, a lanky, silvery-blond boy of fifteen, swiftly appeared, carrying a candle.

"Monsieur," Jerome said.

"Light the candles in the sitting room, will you?" Walsingham asked. "In the bedroom as well. Bring a bottle of Bordeaux and two glasses while you're at it. I am having company tonight."

"Oui, monsieur," Jerome said and disappeared into the darkness. Soon, the soft glow issuing from the sitting room announced that the candles were lit. When Walsingham entered, Jerome was closing the curtains on the windows.

Sir Francis met Jerome just before leaving France, when the little imp tried to pick his pocket. Rather than handing the young thief into the hands of the law, Walsingham decided to take the orphan into his service. Since then, the boy had proved to be a surprisingly capable servant. Jerome was truthful, prompt and, above all, loyal. He was among the very few people who had the spymaster's full trust.

Walsingham approached the table and pored himself a glass of wine. After, he settled comfortably in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. He took one sip of wine and stretched his legs, pensively studying the ruby liquid in the firelight. His thoughts were soon interrupted by a quiet knock on the door. He heard it squeak as Jerome, who once again had resumed his post by the door, let the woman inside. A moment later, the boy entered the sitting room.

"A lady eez 'ere to see you, Sir Francis," he said, bowing.

"Good," Walsingham replied. "Invite her in and make sure we are not disturbed. That would be all for today. You may go to bed, my boy."

"Merci très beaucoup. Bonne nuit, monsieur," Jerome bowed and walked out. Walsingham heard him say "Monsieur eez waiteeng for you, mademoiselle".

"Let's see what Lady Luck chose to bless us with tonight, shall we?" Walsingham muttered sardonically, getting up to receive his guest…

**~o~**


	2. Chapter 2

**~o~**

He heard the rustling of the skirts and a heartbeat later the woman walked into the room and curtsied. Her bow was slow and graceful. Walsingham immediately saw that she was very young, at least a decade younger than the women he usually entertained. As she rose and faced him, he saw that he was not mistaken. She was indeed very young, beautiful, but not stunningly so, with blue eyes and red hair that was wrapped into a crown around her head. Her azure, silver-embroidered dress with flared collar was very modest by stands of the court. On the whole, she was a complete opposite to the type of women who usualy visited his chambers at this time of night.

"What is your name, child?" Walsingham asked when his surprise subsided.

"Victoria York, Your Grace," the girl replied. Her voice sounded somewhat timid, but pleasant nonetheless.

"And what is your purpose here, Lady Victoria?" Walsingham asked.

"I have heard from Lady Kensington that when Your Grace wears a garnet ring on your left hand, it means Your Grace is in need of…" she paused, obviously searching for the best word. "Intimate company," she finished.

"Very nicely put, Lady Victoria," Walsingham chuckled. "One thing Lady Kensington has surely failed to mention is that I am not accustomed to robbing children of their innocence. Do you not care that your marriage prospects will be ruined by you coming here?"

Even in the flickering candlelight, Walsingham saw the girl's face redden.

"If I may be so bold, Your Grace," she said. "You are mistaken to think that I am too young. I will be turning twenty four come September. Neither will my coming here be able to ruin my prospects, for what more calamity can befall something that has already been ruined?"

Victoria looked up at Walsingham.

"If Your Grace is displeased with any part of me, than I shall leave," she said. There was no anger or challenge in her voice, only humble submission.

"I did not say that," Walsingham said, setting his glass on the table. Despite himself, he felt intrigued by her. He approached Victoria, and taking her hand, lifted it to his lips.

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Victoria," he said, kissing her fingertips.

Victoria bowed again.

Being a possessor of an innate talent when it came to judgment of human character, which was sharpened profusely by both life experience and the nature of his occupation, Walsingham immediately saw an unmistakable aura of sincerity about her. Her gaze was bright and honest. A persona like her was quite rare among the courtiers.

"Would you care for anything, my Lady?" Walsingham asked.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Victoria replied. "But there is nothing I require."

"Than shall we?" Walsingham extended his hand towards the bedroom.

"As Your Grace wishes," Victoria said quietly.

Sir Francis took Victoria by the hand and led the way. Similarly to the rest of his quarters, the bedroom had an air of dignified luxury about it. The burgundy silk that lined the walls matched the velvet drapes on the elaborately carved four-poster bed. The bedroom was lit by a merrily crackling fireplace and a three-armed candlestick on the bedside table.

As they stopped by the bed, Walsingham turned to face Victoria. She fixed her gaze on his shoulder and he felt her hand tremble in his.

"Child," Walsingham addressed her gently. "It is not too late. Are you sure this is what you want?"

Victoria looked up and gave him a tiny nod. She took a deep breath, evidently gathering her courage, and wrapping her hands gently around his neck, pulled him down for a kiss.

It did not take Walsingham long to see that this girl lacked much experience in comparison to his previous liaisons. Victoria's kisses were more suitable for a teenage girl than a woman her age. But her purity and inexperience were much more effective in arousing him than the flawless seductive techniques usually demonstrated by the worldly dames of the court. His hands found their way around her waist and he pulled Victoria closer, answering her kiss. The girl proved to be a quick study; just a few minutes into the kiss, she had changed her manner, evidently taking note from his actions. Her kisses slowed down and became gentle and sultry.

After countless tender minutes, Sir Francis broke the kiss. He took Victoria by the hand and spun her lightly so she ended up with her back to him. Walsingham pulled her in again, his hands roaming hungrily over her torso, encased in the hard, armor-like shell of the bodice, while his lips tenderly caressed Victoria's long slender neck. Her chest, fully obscured by the modest cut of the dress with its v-shaped Spanish collar, was heaving with rapid breath. Victoria's eyes were closed as she leaned against Walsingham, apparently intrusting herself wholly into his capable hands.

As he laid feathery kissed down her neck, Walsingham inhaled the light flowery scent of her hair. With any other woman in her place, he would already have her stripped bare and bedded, but today, tired as he was, he relished the maddeningly slow pace their passion took. It was a long while since a woman in his arms was so fresh and pure, an actual living thing instead of a made-up over-ripe poppet… His hand slid lightly up her back to undo the lacing of her dress. Walsingham heard Victoria inhale somewhat sharply as he, finished with his task, pushed the dress off her shoulders and further down her body. A moment later the dress crumpled to the floor at Victoria's feet.

It now became obvious to Walsingham why this girl saw it necessary to cover her chest. Two full mounds rose above the top of her bodice, its pressure pushing them up almost level with Victoria's clavicles. The spymaster ran a light hand over Victoria's chest before setting to the task of ridding his fair companion of her armor. Her bosom looked even more impressive once the bodice joined the dress on the floor. Walsingham's hands traveled up her torso once more to tenderly cup her breasts through the cotton of her chemise while continuing to nuzzle her neck. Victoria gasped and leaned even closer against him.

"Look at me, child," Walsingham whispered. Victoria's eyes opened and she turned her head lightly to face him. Sir Francis smiled down at her, leaning in for another kiss. His one hand remained on her breast, while the other slipped down to her waist to fiddle with the fastenings on Victoria's petticoats. They fell to the ground in a voluminous cloud. Lady York remained in Walsingham's arms dressed in nothing but a half-transparent shift.

Turning in his arms, Victoria looked up at him again. Coyly, she opened Walsingham's jacket and pushed it over his shoulders. Walsingham shrugged it off and cradled Victoria's head in his hands, kissing her deeply. He backed her up towards the bed, and taking her hand, gently lowered her onto it.

She watched as though mesmerized, as Sir Francis disrobed. His shirt fell on the floor by the bed, followed closely by his shoes and stockings. Walsingham than sat down by Victoria's side, kissing her again. The girl definitely continued improving, for her kisses tasted ever sweeter. He felt Victoria's tiny fingers run through his hair, quickly undoing its previous neat arrangement. Following her lead, Walsingham's quick hands promptly removed all the pins, combs and ribbons that held Victoria's crown together. A minute later, a wave of auburn hair cascaded down her shoulders.

Walsingham broke the kiss for just long enough to lay Victoria on the bed and then climb in to join her. Slowly, he pushed the shift up, gradually exposing Victoria's body. She was as good as he imagined; delicate pale skin marked with freckles, firm thighs, slim waist and finally, a couple of sensuous orbs adorned with nipples, pink as cherry blossoms. Enthralled with this sight, Walsingham unceremoniously dropped the shift to the floor. He thought he saw Victoria's eyes open even wider when he sent his breeches to join the pile. Out of desire to spare the girl's obvious innocence, he thoughtfully covered himself with a sheet before removing this last article of his clothing. His slender hands caressed Victoria's body while his lips once again became interlocked with hers.

"Would you care to know, my dear," Walsingham whispered, his right hand sliding further and further down Victoria's body, "what in my opinion is one of nature's best creations?"

Victoria nodded. Walsingham's hand slid between her thighs. Victoria's gasp told him that his expert fingers had found what they were looking for.

"It is something called the 'seat of woman's delight'," Walsingham informed her casually, all the while his fingers were circling and pressing. "Otherwise known as the 'sweetness of Venus'. It was found indispensable throughout many ages by lovers of both genders, but the study of its nature had only begun a few years back. Shame, is it not?" he smiled as he heard Victoria moan softly in response to his actions. "Is it not a miracle that such a little thing can hold so much power?" He intensified the pressure, extracting a much more audible sound of pleasure from his subject.

After yet another kiss, Walsingham's hand slid once more between Victoria's thighs to part them. Obediently, Victoria's young body complied with his urgings, her eyes not leaving his. Her red hair, thrown the pillow, shone like molten gold in candlelight. Victoria appeared anxious, almost scared. Her eyes were wide open, her breath shallow and fast as Walsingham's weight shifted over her.

She gasped, grabbing at his back, as he took her. Once again, Sir Francis was forced to smile as he observed this curious controversy. By her own confession, Lady Victoria was no innocent maiden, but her manner, too genuine to be an act, was one of a virgin. The uneasiness, the surprise, the complete and utter surrender unto him was something entirely new, something Walsingham had not experienced in a while. He gifted Victoria with the kindest smile he could produce, stroking her hair.

"Don't be nervous," he spoke softly. "I would not hurt you."

"Yes, Your Grace," Victoria whispered.

Leisurely, gently he started thrusting into her, enjoying the almost immediate signs of pleasure manifesting on her face. Walsingham watched as her eyes darkened and two rouge spots flared on her alabaster cheeks.

Truly, Walsingham mused, it was not fair. His extensive knowledge and experience were thrown against a girl whose experience amounted to almost nothing. He knew all the right moves and all the right ways. He tortured her and he watched the flames of passion consume her. He would stop in the very heat of the moment and just lie there, kissing her as she trembled under him incoherently, only to drive himself roughly into her the very next moment, eliciting loud moans.

Lady Victoria melted in his hands like butter in the sun. Her arms were wrapped around him softy, stroking his back as it rose and fell. Her lips were parted slightly, but the only things that escaped them were her rugged breath and unthinking whimpers. Her pleasure came not from enjoying him, but from being enjoyed _by_ him.

"Do not fight it," Walsingham whispered in her ear as her moans intensified. "Just let it come." He stopped for the last time, showering her trembling body with kisses. Victoria was biting her lips, tottering on the very brink. She looked so vulnerable that Sir Francis at last felt some pity. With a few powerful strokes, he made her come undone. She cried out, clutching onto him so tightly as though he was the only thing keeping her aground.

Toying with her, Walsingham forgot about his own body. His own release blindsided him, powerfully knocking him down from his the heights of his condescension. He gasped abruptly, driving himself into her very depths, his entire body flooding with pleasure…

Panting, Sir Francis dropped his head on Victoria's heaving chest. Her heart was pounding within her like a bird straining to break free. He felt Victoria's hands run tenderly through his hair as she held him in her embrace, comforting his tired body.

Walsingham was dozing off, her body and his still tangled together. Neither with his wife nor with any other woman, had he felt it suitable to do so, but something about her felt so different, so very different from the many women he had met over the years…

Walsingham fell asleep, his head still resting soundly on the chest of his fair companion.

**~o~O~o~**

Walsingham lay in bed as he watched Victoria dress. She quickly slipped on her chemise and petticoats. When it came to the corset, however, Sir Francis immediately saw that his fair companion encountered some difficulties, having to do herself up tightly into a garment that had laces in the back.

"Do you require assistance, my Lady?" Walsingham asked, smiling crookedly.

"It appears that I do," Victoria said, smiling shyly. "But where would I get a woman to aid me in this hour of the night?"

"What need is there for a woman?" Walsingham asked, getting up. He wrapped a bed sheet around his waist and walked up to Victoria. "I have removed so many corsets in my lifetime, I think I would be more than adequate in putting them on," he joked, taking up the laces.

Victoria grabbed onto the bedpost as Sir Francis started to lace her up. He did not expect it, but he found the close proximity to this girl surprisingly pleasurable. The warmth that came from her body, small sharp gasps that came from her every time he tightened up the corset, several locks that escaped her hastily arranged coif and were now curling along her neck – all those little details, simple and intimate, made him feel the way he had not felt for a long time: truly happy in a company of a woman. Just like earlier in bed, Victoria had submitted to his strength.

When the corset was secured, Walsingham abruptly pulled Victoria to his chest. He felt her pulse quicken as he caressed her neck with his lips.

"I am immensely grateful for your company tonight, Lady Victoria," he whispered. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Victoria was quiet.

"'Tis not a payment I am offering you, my Lady," he continued, "but a gesture of gratitude."

"If Your Grace wishes to give me something, it would be discourteous of me not to accept it," Victoria replied. She took a deep breath that, as Walsingham had already learned, meant that she was gathering her courage.

"I would be greatly honored to entertain Your Grace for one other night," she whispered.

Walsingham's eyebrows shot up.

"Granted," he said slowly, a small smile gamboling across his lips. "Tomorrow."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Victoria said quietly.

She finished dressing quickly, and bowing once again, left. Alone, Walsingham returned to his bed. As he was about to fall asleep, he mentally smirked to himself, noting how wonderful it was that his "remedy" worked so well each every time.

"Commonly," he mused, "if you have trouble sleeping, you are forced to seek out some charlatan's shop where this fellow cleverly sells you some "magic potion" made of donkey piss and soot in exchange for a pocketful of gold. The taste is beastly and the result is nil. Now, my solution, on the other hand, works wonders every time and _tastes_ equal to none…"

Thinking in such way, the most feared man in England finally succumbed to slumber as the darkness outside began to dissipate, signaling the approach of the daybreak.

**~o~**


	3. Chapter 3

**~o~**

Just like the day before, by the time darkness fell, Walsingham was in his chair by the fire. He celebrated the end of another full, difficult day with a goblet of Bordeaux, which he came to care for a great deal during his stay in France. All in all, he found this day to be productive, but there was still much to be done. The beheading of Norfolk and other ringleaders of the plot, while necessary, consequently meant the beheading of society, for they were all nobles of the highest rank. While the initial shock was imminent, multiple precautions had to be taken to decrease its impact.

Walsingham's mind worked vigorously all day long, but now as he sat by the fireplace in the evening, his thoughts adapted a more leisurely pace. As he waited for Lady Victoria to make her appearance, the thoughts of state became gradually replaced by totally different kinds of images, sensations and sounds… Azure dress on the floor at the foot of his bed… The velvety feel of her heated skin against his… A golden cross trembling on her clavicle… Although he was most unwilling to admit it, last night left a deeper impression in his mind than he first thought…

He looked up as a knock came on the door. A small smirk appeared on his lips once the course of action was decided and faded immediately. He got up from his chair as Lady Victoria once again appeared in the room. Her dress, pale yellow this time, was as modest as the one the day before.

"Your Grace," she said quietly, bowing deeply. As she looked up, she saw Walsingham standing in front of her, his arms crossed.

"You are late, my Lady," he said, his face stern. He almost ruined his own plan by smiling when he saw her eyes open wide in terror at his words. Her lips opened, possibly to defend herself. In truth, she had a good reason, for no specific time was set for their meeting. However, she said nothing. Instead, she lowered her head and bowed again.

"Do you know, my Lady," he continued, coming closer, "what punishment I commonly issue for tardiness?" She shook her head, apparently too mortified for words.

"A person at fault must pay a steep charge to redeem herself," he continued, delighted at how well his plan was working.

"Anything, Your Grace," she spoke in a barely-audible whisper.

Abruptly, Walsingham scooped her up in his arms. She gasped in surprise. Still maintaining a grave expression, he carried her into his bedchamber, marveling at how light her body felt in his hands.

As he approached the bed, he gently deposited her onto it. Laying his hands on the tips of her toes, he slowly trailed them up, caressing Victoria's legs and raising her skirts the same time.

Kicking off his shoes, he got into bed as well. As he posed himself on hands and knees over her, he looked into her eyes. Unexpectedly, he saw an expression of pure horror on her face. Her chest heaved with rapid, shallow breath and her blue shining orbs were brimming with moisture. Apparently, Walsingham thought, he had taken it too far. Immediately, his solemnity melted into a smile and he tenderly stroked her cheek with his hand.

"I told you yesterday," he whispered, "I would not hurt you. Do you remember it?"

Victoria gave him a tiny nod.

"I never go back on my word," Walsingham continued.

Victoria nodded again. As her breathing calmed, the tears dried from her eyes.

"Now," Walsingham spoke, "let us pick up where we left off, shall we? There is still so much I must teach you."

He slowly lowered himself until he was lying on top of her.

"Now," he said softly, "where were we?"

Victoria's lips opened wordlessly as he entered her slowly.

"Oh yes," he muttered contently. "Right about here."

He took her hands and, guiding them above her head, closed her palms around the carved oak bar at the head of the bed.

"You are going to need it, my Lady," he whispered hotly in response to her questioning look, "for if you thought yesterday was greatly demanding, you were gravely mistaken."

He was a good as his word. A good half an hour had passed before he released her from his embrace. Walsingham was doubtful that the walls of his bedroom had yet heard such sounds of pleasure being uttered. Her knuckles became white as she clung to the carved wood. Victoria's desperate pleas born of agonizing pleasure were music to his ears as she begged for relief at the end…

Her final cry still echoing in his ears, he rolled to his back. Still fully dressed, they lay by each other's side, panting. Staring at the canopy of his bed, Walsingham felt very odd. He shared his bed with countless women, yet he never felt the way he felt now. The absence of a certain dreadfully familiar emotion was most conspicuous. He had no sense of being sullied or repulsed, wanting nothing more than to push the woman unceremoniously off his bed to spare himself from one more look at her. He felt… Good, excellent, in fact, and fulfilled. It was the most bewildering sensation, growing more puzzling still, for he could not explain its origins. Having failed at that, he decided to throw dry logic to the wind and simply revel in the moment while it lasted.

Rolling to his side, he looked at Lady York. She lay quietly by his side, her eyes reflecting the darkness of the canopy above. Propping himself on his right elbow, he surveyed her glowing cheeks and tousled appearance. It gave him great satisfaction to think that he could extract such loud cries of passion from a creature, so quiet and humble otherwise, and that Victoria now lay in front of him, her modesty ruffled in such obvious, delightfully licentious way.

His left hand pushed Victoria down quickly as she tried to get up.

"Oh no, my Lady," he addressed her, his hand now stroking her cheek. "This was merely a fee, meant to compensate for your late arrival. In truth, we have not yet begun and you are trying run away. Do you, perhaps, find my company disagreeable?"

She turned to him and smiled.

"Not at all, my Lord," she replied quietly. "I have heard Lady Kensington say that you dislike it when ladies overstay their welcome. I would not want to be guilty of that."

"Do remember, child," Walsingham replied, his free hand lazily caressing her exposed thighs, "that it is my word, and not the one of Lady Kensington, that should be trusted the most in this bedchamber, for I am the one who makes the rules. Shall the time come when I do not want you here, I shall tell you so quite plainly. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my Lord," Lady Victoria replied.

Sir Francis leaned in closer, burying his nose in the soft locks on her temple. His fingers slid between her thighs, flawlessly reaching their target.

"Let me now tell you as plainly as I can," Walsingham whispered in her ear, as she bit her lips, bucking against his fingers, "what is it that I wish of you. I shall not dismiss you until I am satisfied and I shall not be satisfied until every inch of your body is flooded by bliss that I made you feel, until I have taken all that you have to give and you can bear it no longer, and than I shall take some more…"

His lips were once again upon hers, just in time to breathe in the exhalation of her climax. He took it in, absorbing it to his full inebriation. Walsingham felt Victoria's hand on the back of his head, pulling him closer for another kiss, trembling with desperate yearning.

"You agree with my plan, I take it?" Walsingham muttered, rubbing his nose gently against hers.

"Whatever I have to give, Your Grace," she replied, "is yours for the taking."

Slowly, his fingers ran through the lacing of her dress to undo it. Walsingham pried the two halves of the bodice apart, his lips traveling southward to finally capture one of her exposed nipples. Victoria's hand still resting on the back of his head, he suckled on her pink flesh, from time to time nibbling at it ever so slightly.

Sir Francis interrupted himself briefly to examine the result his efforts were producing. Victoria's head was slightly tilted as it lay on the pillow, the side of her neck quivering in unison with her quickened pulse. Her gaze was darkened by passion to such degree that her normally blue eyes now appeared black.

"One of the drawbacks of modern fashion, my dear," Walsingham said, his finger tracing patterns on Victoria's stomach, "is that it favors appearance over comfort. On the other hand, there is nothing more comfortable than one's own skin. Hence, I suggest that we at once renounce the demands of fashion, for we have a very long night ahead of us…"

**~o~O~o~**

Walsingham slowly opened his eyes. Judging by the misty light that filled the chamber, it was early morning. He could already hear twittering of the birds, as they serenaded the rising sun, their enthusiasm unhindered by the November cold. Their lovable sonnets were rudely interrupted by the vulgar sounds emitted by hundreds of crows who already assembled in the yard of the Tower for an early breakfast. One did not have to be a poet to appreciate the beginning of the new day; the crude and the gentle alike celebrated in their own way.

He thought of the Queen, who had probably already risen. Walsingham imagined as she sat in front of her mirror, running her finger thoughtfully through her short disheveled hair. With no people around and no need to pretend, her face is would become moody and dark. She might be a queen, but she was also a woman. She put the interests of her country above her own, but an honorable choice does not always fulfill you. Elizabeth waited until her ladies would come to dress her and apply her makeup. Walsingham was among very few who could see the blood of her broken life and womanhood trickle from underneath the impenetrable white mask that was her face.

Ursula, Lady Walsingham, was probably awake as well, presuming that she had gone to bed at all. This good woman was prone to violent bouts of insomnia, and frequently the morning found her on the sofa with a book in her hand. Wearing a nightgown and a shawl, she would leaf through the pages of some silly novel, without taking in a word. Her eyes were glassy and unmoving as the ones of a person deep in though. She never shared her thoughts with him and he never asked. Walsingham would simply give her a peck on the forehead before disappearing through the bedroom door. Ursula never sought his closeness. Only once, in her sleep, she had rolled close to his side, wrapping her unthinking hand around his chest. Once and once only…

One could also not help but think, Walsingham scoffed, of the legendary Lady Kensington, whose name came up the day before and who, to his aversion, was one of his most frequent midnight guest. Trice married and trice divorced before she aged twenty, penniless due to her husbands' debts, she had since supported herself mainly through the generous gifts of her countless lovers. To her credit, she had managed to preserve most of her beauty and to miraculously avoid those horrible maladies that curse all women of her kind; both of those facts she marketed relentlessly. This bird of paradise was probably still asleep in the arms of whoever she chose for the night, someone like the Duke of Buckingham or Lord Henry Percy.

Walsingham knew that she did not like him, though she visited him often, for he alone did not worship or praise her, taking only what he wanted, indifferent to her own needs. But being in bed with the spymaster was the closest thing this poor woman had ever come to real power that she lacked so badly in life. She could only feel influential by chartering her body to powerful men. Truly, she was worthy of both contempt and compassion in equal measure.

And there was this girl, who at this moment slept peacefully on his chest. Victoria's cheeks were still glowing, as though scalded by the intensity of their nightly passion. When Walsingham looked at her, he experienced an unexpected surge of pity, the kind of pity one feels having accidentally trodden on a beautiful flower or having crushed a tender butterfly that landed trustingly on one's palm. Who knows, Walsingham thought, he might be witnessing the rise of the new star in heavens of wickedness, for in a decade, Lady Victoria York might become even more famous among the unfaithful husbands than the woman whose words guided her to his bed. But no, he thought, she was far too modest for that, too innocent to push her way through the competition and use the situation to achieve her own ends. Most likely, she would die alone, in poverty, and not a single tear would be shed for her… All this made Walsingham wonder of what forced this woman to embrace the life she was most unsuited for.

It was a shame, for she was a good lover, regardless of her lack of experience. Her success was in her submission, in her singular burning, naïve desire to please. This kind of feeling was more appropriate in the conjugal bed than in the bed of a seasoned courtier, old enough to be her father.

Four. Four times they had woken to become entangled in throes of desire, then to fall again, breathless, into an uneasy, short sleep. Sir Francis did himself proud, for he was the one who tired her, and now he watched her sleep.

Women, he thought, so different yet so similar. Whether they swore off men or overindulged in their company, they remained unsatisfied, cheated by life. Either way, their vitality was wasted, drop by drop, in this struggle for happiness. Their efforts were bound to fail, for they remained a mere commodity, pretty things for men to be bought, sold and traded. In the end, after years of such treatment, only a shell remained of them, adorned with jewels, silks and a frozen smile, empty, save for a few bitter memories.

As he stroked Victoria's back gently, he noticed something missing. A necklace of tiny peals that decorated her neck the night before was no longer there. Trying not to wake her, Walsingham looked around for it. He found it almost immediately, fallen in between the sheets. It looked tasteful, yet the closer examination revealed it to be something very inexpensive, probably one of the few ornaments Victoria could afford to own.

An idea formed in his mind and he promptly tucked the necklace deep under the pillow…

**~o~**


	4. Chapter 4

**~o~**

The sky hung low and heavy above the Tower Hill. Not the slightest sliver of blue graced the uninterrupted canvass of dirty gray clouds. It was as appropriate as it was cruel. The heavens themselves mourned for those sentenced to part with their lives on this morrow, but those poor men could not even lay their eyes on the sun before they died, about the only thing capable of giving them comfort.

Forty men or so surrounded the scaffold. It was a simple rough structure of weathered gray wood, covered in patches of blackish mold. Only twelve of them were nobles; the rest were guards. Walsingham, wearing his usual somber robes of state, stood among the other gentlemen of the court. About fifty yards to the left of the scaffold stood a rickety wooden hut that served as a final sanctuary for those about to leave this world. Sir Francis watched as the doors of the hut opened and the three men appeared. Preceded by four guards and flanked by four more, the condemned walked along the human gallery that connected the hut and the scaffold.

Norfolk was walking proudly at the head of the group, his back rigid and straight. Sussex walked behind him, but his shoulders were hunched as he stared at the ground below. Arundel, on the other hand, had the look of the man at peace. As soon as Norfolk's eyes spotted Walsingham, he stopped abruptly. The guard was about to force him onward, but the spymaster lifted his hand to stay the guard's actions.

"Walsingham," Norfolk said icily. "You've come to watch. Will my death please you?"

"It pleases me to see that a plot against Her Majesty has been foiled," Walsingham replied calmly, "and that justice has been served upon the guilty. It pleases me not, to see you among them."

"Do not flatter yourself," Norfolk continued. "You have not bested me on the strength of your mind or ability. I stand here before you merely because you bought the eyes and ears of a cheap cunt. Such unbecoming truth, is it not?"

He shook his head contemptuously and turned to walk away. However, after a few steps he turned again.

"You reap only what you sow," he said, his eyes drilling into Walsingham's. His speech was heavy, as though he gathered all his might to slay his opponent with this anathema. "There will come a time when a woman in your bed becomes a serpent to crush the life out of you, just as it happened to me. My only regret, as I walk to my death, is that I will not be present to see it."

Norfolk turned once more and walked on. Walsingham understood exactly what the Duke wanted: for the last word to be his, and he would not allow him that privilege.

"You speak the truth," Walsingham called out after him. He spoke quietly, but such was the silence that dominated the scene, his every word was clearly heard. "You reap only what you sow, so the one who commits treason now dies betrayed. It takes an honorable man to acquiesce to his guilt and accept the punishment without grievance. If you lacked such honor in life, at least have it in death. And _that_ is the most unbecoming truth of all."

Norfolk awarded him a glare of pure loathing that could have melted a marble statue. It was to no avail, for the spymaster's heart was harder than the bones of the Earth. With a nod of his head, Walsingham ordered the group onward. Furiously shaking the guard's hand off his shoulder, Norfolk proceeded ahead.

The wooden steps creaked beneath their feet as the woeful procession ascended to the scaffold. The guards put the three men in their place and formed a somber line in the back of the podium. However, neither the condemned, important as they were, nor the Archbishop in his full regalia, nor the executioner with his shaved head and beaky eagle nose, silent as Death Personified, had the lead role in this play. No, this scene belonged solely to the square wooden block and its faithful partner, the axe. The deadliest duet of them all, gatekeepers of the World Beyond, they waited on the center stage…

Stepping proudly to the block, Norfolk tore at his shirt. The sound of the ripping fabric cut through the still air. The Archbishop of Canterbury, wearing a somber expression on his face, approached the Duke with a crucifix in his hands. Norfolk lowered to his knees. From a moment when his lips touched the cross, Norfolk's face changed entirely. He now looked no more like a noble of high birth, furious and humiliated by his defeat, but like a martyr he so desired to be remembered as.

Pulling away, he took off a golden cross which hung from his neck on a long chain and handed into the Archbishop.

"Give it to my son," he ordered. The Archbishop accepted the cross, bestowing his blessings upon him and stepped back.

"I will have you all know," Norfolk spoke, his voice echoing across the Tower Hill, "that my disgrace does not strip me off my title, like some will have you believe. I was born with it coursing through my veins and nourished upon it, along with my mother's milk. I grew up, a Norfolk from head to toe, and I shall die as one. Bear it in mind it when you place my head upon a spike," he said, looking openly at Walsingham, "for the spike still has to be a proper height for my stature."

Walsingham nodded slightly, acknowledging the Duke's last wish. Oh Vanity, he thought, accept this final sacrifice of your most dutiful servant!

Clasping his hands behind his back, Norfolk resolutely laid his head on the block. The executioner, who waited obligingly nearby, stepped forward. He took his stance, the first figure in this dance of Death, and slowly lowered his axe upon the Duke's neck to take aim.

Norfolk's eyes looked firmly in front of him, into the depth of that fateful basket when the axe in the executioner's hands soared once more. It came down, hard and fast, ending his life with a single blow that made the whole podium tremble. The blood gushed from the orphaned neck upon the wood of the scaffold as his head rolled into the basket… Many of the ones that were present lowered their eyes; some even removed their hats as the final gesture of respect. Arundel closed his eyes with a trembling hand. Sussex, who stood closer, jumped as though he had been bitten. His eyes wide, he forcefully wiped his cheek where a few drops of still warm blood had landed. The Archbishop was white as paper.

Having completed his first task, the executioner stepped back, once again turning into a motionless statue.

Everyone's eyes now upon him, Sussex realized that it was now his turn. This man, so fearsome in his power, had only enough strength to take two steps. He fell hard to his knees, refusing to move. The executioner nodded and the two guards approached, grabbing the petrified man under his arms and dragged him towards the scaffold. He took no notice of the cross the Archbishop offered him or the guards approaching once more to disrobe him. Limp as a rag doll, he allowed the executioner to bend him, placing his head on the block. Seeing Norfolk's lifeless head in front of him, Sussex shut his eyes firmly. His lips were moving faintly, perhaps in a prayer, or perhaps he was merely saying his farewells to whatever he held most dear…

Another blow followed momentarily. The earth lost another man, and the basket gained another head…

The Duke of Arundel, the oldest of the three, stretched his shoulders and stepped forward. Nodding at the executioner, he took off a precious diamond ring off his finger and handed it to the man.

"You have done your job well," he said quietly. Unlike Norfolk, he desired not to make a spectacle. "You have not missed. I am confident that you shall do just as splendidly the third time around." The executioner bowed, accepting the gift. Arundel nodded, taking another step forward.

"Henry, no!" a woman's voice tore through the overwrought silence. Arundel started, urgently peering into the crowd. A hooded figure right in the front row untangled itself from the man supporting it, and pushing a guard aside, darted towards the scaffold. Caught by surprise, the guards took but a minute to recover. In a blink of an eye, four hands grabbed the figure firmly from both sides. The figure cried out, thrashing desperately to free itself from its captors. In the midst of the struggle, the hood fell from its head, revealing the feverishly burning cheeks on the otherwise ashen face of the poor Mary FitzAlan, Duchess of Arundel.

"Let go! Let go!" she cried hysterically. Walsingham saw a tear streak down Arundel's face, forced to watch helplessly as the guards restrained wife, in the heat of the moment forgetting to apply the necessary courtesy towards a lady of her standing.

"Let her go!" Walsingham ordered. At once, the guards released the Duchess, who was at this point dangerously close to fainting. Arundel threw Walsingham a grateful look. The spymaster nodded.

"Henry!" the Duchess cried. "I had a change of mind! I want to die! I want to go with you!"

Arundel walked to the edge of the scaffold and kneeled to take her hand. Smiling sadly, he stroked her disheveled hair.

"My darling Mary," he spoke lovingly. "You do not truly want it. Two things you always were: my beloved wife and the most devoted mother. The first wants to come with me, but I doubt the second lets her."

More and more tears flowed from her eyes. Arundel wiped them gently, touching the wet fingers to his heart. Forty men observed this exchange with eighty astonished eyes, but those two could not care less.

"Hug the children for me, Mary," he said. "Tell them their father died an honest man. Jacob?" he addressed the men who accompanied his wife. The man nodded, approaching the Duchess. After the last kiss Arundel placed upon her hand, the man put an arm around Mary's shoulders and gently forced her to come away.

Lightly, like a men preparing for bed, Arundel took off his shirt and threw it aside. He kneeled, placing a reverent kiss upon a cross the Archbishop held out for him. Taking one final look around him, his eyes lingering for just one tender second upon his poor wife, he lay his head on the block. As though in her sleep, Mary lowered to her knees, clasping her hands prayerfully in front of her. A lone ray of the sun, appearing from God only knows where, shone brightly on the blade of the ascending axe…

A loud thump echoed yet again through the tomblike silence, followed immediately by the sound of a lifeless body hitting the ground. Walsingham looked at the kneeling woman. Mary stood as though petrified, her eyes frozen upon the wooden beams that bore the scaffold. A dry sob escaped her parted lips as she saw ruby droplets slide down the beam and fall to the ground, one by one. Thicker and thicker they fell, gradually turning into a small stream. Quietly, her grief beyond any manner of expression, the Duchess crumpled to the ground…

Walsingham sighed.

**~o~O~o~**

As he walked pensively through the corridors of the palace, Walsingham took no note of the people bowing as he passed. His face was calm, almost serene, but that serenity was deceptive. He always appeared calmest while his mind spread out like many tentacles of an underwater beast. Walsingham was a true Leviathan of intrigue, the one who had yet to find his match. Many tried to challenge him, but all of them were trapped and dragged bodily down to the crushing oblivion. Walsingham was always the one who remained the ever watchful, the ever dangerous, the ever loyal guard of Queen Elizabeth's reign.

There was no man alive who could boast of having his full trust. Walsingham gave no one the benefit of his good opinion. Today, the three highest nobles in the land, paid with their lives for the treason they had committed. Regardless of who might be guilty tomorrow, he would give all his might to insure they were thwarted and punished accordingly. That was one of his strengths. His cautiousness knew no limit, for he knew that human corruption also had none. When some reprehensible act took place, he reacted immediately, needing no time wrap his mind around the depravity of it all, for in his mind it was all natural and quite plausible.

But he made one unforgivable mistake: he had forgotten himself, even for a minute, in the arms of that girl. He had made an error, and Norfolk's words reminded him of that. An unforgivable blunder on his part, of course, but it was not yet beyond redemption. An honest person was indeed a very rare occurrence at court. It was far more likely that this girl was nothing more than an accomplished actress, who for some unknown purpose, sought closeness with him. If that was the case, she was to be found out quickly and dealt with.

**~o~O~o~**

As soon as he walked in the door, he clapped his hands twice to summon Jerome. In a matter of seconds the boy appeared in front of him.

"Fetch me Sir Robert," Walsingham ordered. "Tell him I wish to see him at once."

Jerome bowed and left. Walsingham heard the boy's footsteps gather speed as he broke into a run. Jerome knew well that when his master said 'at once', he really meant it.

Walsingham proceeded to his study, where he settled behind the desk. Although he had not done anything today, besides attend the execution, he felt completely spent. Pouring himself a goblet of wine, Sir Francis leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs. He had won yet another round, and for a short while everything would quiet down. Even the most avid conspirators would remain stunned and fearful for some time over the death of such prominent men, whose position and influence did nothing to protect them. Soon, much too soon, their courage would be regained and another round would begin…

Deep in thought, Walsingham lost track of time. A sound of the door being closed made him return to life at the present. He looked up as Sir Robert Beale entered the study. The man was so tall, he had to bend slightly in order to pass through the door. Dry and sinewy, with his thin face and long legs, Beale looked remarkably like a human equivalent of a grasshopper. The mordant expression he wore upon his visage complemented his appearance perfectly.

Having bowed upon his entrance, Beale approached a chair opposite to Walsingham and plopped into it, stretching leisurely. Besides being Walsingham's right hand, he also happened to be his brother-in-law, married to Lady Ursula's elder sister, Edith. Folding his fingertips together in front of him, Beale looked at Walsingham.

"What is it now, Francis?" he asked, his tone lacking the proper notes of submission, required when addressing the people of the higher standing than one's own. "I rather hoped that after all the work I have done for you, I could have a bit of a private time."

"Do forgive me, Robert," Walsingham replied. "There is an urgent matter I wish you to attend to. Once you have heard my reason, I am confident that you will forgive me for making you leave Helena's bed." It was Walsingham's turn to smile as he saw Beale wrinkle his long nose, trying his best not to look too pleased with himself. It was common knowledge that he was blatantly unfaithful to his spouse, a fact he variously paraded.

"It is Charlotte now," Beale replied indifferently. "As soon as I commit a woman's name to memory, I get a new one."

Even in his early youth, Sir Robert Beale possessed a remarkably detached, philosophical set of mind. An early arranged marriage to Edith St. Barbe, a hotheaded willful woman, did nothing to improve his disposition, adding a fair measure of acerbic sarcasm to his character and stripping him of quite a few scruples. If he were to look at any given person, he was quick to discern their faults, while their virtues eluded him completely; if he were to look at a situation, he would immediately count all the ways it could turn afoul. Only the most skillful eye could discern a deep sorrow over the life lost and prospects wasted in this lascivious, bitter wreck of a man.

Nevertheless, there was no better person when it came to procuring information. If the facts Walsingham needed were not already stored in Beale's head, they were acquired at impressive speed. Like a seasoned bloodhound, Beale stopped at nothing in order to procure whatever his superior thought was necessary. Usualy Walsingham turned a blind eye to the way such acquisitions were made, for Beale's final product, an accurate and cold fact, was indispensable to the security of the state.

"So, what is it that you want of me?" Beale asked, making himself comfortable.

"Do you know one Lady Victoria York?" Walsingham asked, handing Beale a glass of wine.

Beale furrowed his brow for the briefest of moments.

"Red hair and a fine set of tits?" he asked coolly, accepting the goblet from Walsingham and reclining in his chair once more. "She is an absolute mouse. Why?"

Walsingham raised a meaningful eyebrow at Beale.

"I shall never believe that you know not," Sir Francis said.

"Keeping tabs on you could cost me, Francis," Beale smirked.

"I suspect you still do it, do you not?" Walsingham asked, sure of the answer to come.

"Naturally," Beale replied. "So tell me, Francis, did you find the rest of her body equally impressive?

"I shall leave you with a mystery," Walsingham said. As worldly and hardhearted as he had grown to be, he had no desire to discuss women as though they were racehorses or hunting hounds.

"She must be quite a sight," Beale said, "for you have had her twice. Had I known her to be such a gem, I would have gotten to her before you did."

"What do you know of her?" Walsingham asked.

"Near to nothing," Beale said, after taking a sip of his wine. "I only heard of her once, in passing. Henry Percy grabbed her in a corridor, three months or so ago. The other girl that was there with her slapped him and tugged her free. It means nothing, except that she is not of noble birth. It is not in Lord Percy's character to paw anyone higher than a maid."

"That, my friend, means that even Lord Percy knows more than us," Walsingham said, putting his glass down and crossing his hands on his chest, "and that is not to our credit. I put you to the task of remedying this, Robert, and I am more than confident that you shall do extremely well."

"So, what would you have me do?" Beale chortled. "Pull up her skirts to see if she has got nice legs and a tight cunny or would you have me dig up the garden in search of a dead baby with two heads and a forked tail, fathered by The Dark One Himself and buried underneath a lovely rosebush?"

"The former needs no further validation," Walsingham smiled crookedly. Beale clicked his tongue approvingly, narrowing his eyes. "The latter responsibility is set to you, Robert. If there is something to be found, find it."

"If I had not known you as well as I do, I could almost say that bastard Norfolk gave you a fright?" Beale asked incredulously. The speed with which he had acquired the knowledge of the incident certainly did him credit.

"I am not the type to be so easily frightened," Walsingham replied after draining his goblet. "However, I am not dull enough to pay no heed to a warning the late Duke of Norfolk was kind enough to bestow upon me. You, as well as I, know of the great many enemies I have made while executing my duties. I have used a woman to get to Norfolk, so one of them can use a woman to get to me. Thick as they are to make their own way, they have enough acumen to try using my own tactics against me. As much as I would applaud the increase of their intellectual ability, I can not oblige them and be compromised anytime before Her Majesty's rule is secure."

"In other words, never," Beale supplied.

Walsingham nodded.

"You have one day," he said. "Depending on the information you collect by than, we shall see if the matter merits further investigation."

"Too much time is wasted on women, if you ask me," Beale said musingly after finishing his wine. "Life is so bloody short. You would think they would come to realize it and stop cluttering it with complications. But no, this is beyond their understanding. Like the Spanish Inquisition, they delight in slow-roasting of innocent men."

"Edith?" Walsingham asked knowingly. Despite the fact that they were bound by nothing more than a hollow shadow of a marriage, Edith made it her duty to remain the scourge of he husband's life.

Sir Robert nodded, pulling a face.

"A pure-bred harpy in a flesh, that woman," he said. "Just my luck, my _perfect_ father had married me to the wrong sister. At least yours knows how to keep quiet, I give her that."

"The quiet ones burden your conscience, my friend," Walsingham sighed, "and in turn, it comes to burden you."

"Conscience?" Beale scoffed. "You still have one of those? Not to worry, it shall pass, just give it time."

"I would rather prefer to keep what little is left of mine," Walsingham said, getting up and reaching for the bottle again. "Otherwise, in a few years' time, people would not be able to tell us apart," he jibed, filling first Beale's glass, than his own.

"We would not want that," Sir Robert smirked, raising his goblet.

"Amen," Walsingham replied, touching his goblet to Beale's.

**~o~O~o~**

A lone dog howled sorrowfully in the distance.

Walsingham lay in his bed, alone. This man, so great and so fearsome among people, nonetheless was powerless to defeat his own insomnia. Today he sat in his study until the witching hour of the night, perusing the reports from his many agents. It was a difficult task, for their lengthy letters were written in complex code and required significant time to decipher. It was well worth it, though, since it was the only true way to insure that the message in the letter would only be understood by the select few meant to understand it.

Sir Francis lay aside his magnifying glass, hoping against hope that it was fatigue that induced this terrible pounding in his temples, resounding painfully in his eyes and head. For the umpteenth time, he wished to lie down in his bed and simply fall asleep, something he was not able to achieve since his youth.

To his vexation, however, slumber had fled his company as soon as he closed his eyes. Laying his head on his crossed arms, Walsingham looked about the dark room. What was the use of the mattress of finest down, clouds for pillows, the beautiful ornate bed or the spacious bedchamber without being able to sleep a wink, whilst the meanest beggar in London was content with his pile of straw and fast asleep?

The darkness prevailed as the fire was slowly dying down in the grate. Again, a dog's howl tore through the night. At least, Walsingham quipped, he was not the only creature in London unable to sleep.

Understanding that the battle had been lost, Sir Francis threw off the blankets and got out of bed. Donning a dressing gown, he headed for his study.

He paused in the corridor where Jerome was curled up in his usual armchair. The boy's long blond curls spilled over the maroon velvet as he slumbered peacefully, his breath quiet and calm. It was genuinely perplexing how Jerome was able to fold his lanky form to fit into the armchair, yet managing to sleep comfortably. Standing over the boy, Walsingham felt an unexpected pang of jealousy. It must be so wonderful to be so young and untroubled, to have no care for the weighty and endless matters of state, simply content with doing your master's bidding… Jerome wrinkled his nose in the candlelight, but slept on. Everyone is good in their own place, Walsingham mused, shielding the flame with his palm. He was best at making sense of men's intentions, digging through the very filth of the human mind, and this lad was best at being his steadfast shadow. To each his own…

Using the candle he brought with him, Sir Francis lit both of the three-branched candelabra on each side of his desk. Once the study was aglow, he settled behind the table, picking up the piece of parchment he was studying just before his unsuccessful attempt to retire for the night.

There he was, once again in the company of the one true mistress to whom he always remained faithful. Without regret, he dedicated her his days on end and most of his nights. It could not have been any other way, for hers was such a vast and complex persona.

Her name was _England_.

**~o~O~o~**

"There you have it," Beale said contentedly, throwing a scroll of parchment on the table. Twenty four hours later, almost to the minute, he again stood in Walsingham's study.

When unrolled, the scroll dazzled Walsingham with virgin emptiness.

"Care to make it plain, Robert?" Sir Francis asked, lifting an eyebrow at Beale.

"Is it not plain enough?" Beale asked.

Walsingham glared at him. Sir Robert rolled his eyes.

"She came to court with Lady Margaret Ashton and on her recommendation," Beale said. "She is one of the many seamstresses, placed under the charge of Lady Gloria Myles. No scandals, no affairs, nothing at all. The woman is as dull as ditchwater!"

"What family does she come from?" Walsingham continued.

"No one knows of her family. She is an orphan," Beale replied, "with no home and not a shilling to her name. God knows what she does with her pay. I would be careful with her if I were you. Women like her are blooming leaches for money."

"Why, thank you, Robert," Walsingham replied sardonically. "I shall heed your advice most carefully." While only five years his senior, Beale always thought it to be his sole privilege to harangue him.

"Well, I best be off," Beale said brusquely. As he reached the door, he turned again.

"And Francis," he cooed, smirking wickedly, "do enjoy yourself, my boy. You deserve it." Sir Robert knew perfectly well that any other man, family or not, would be long dead if he dared to take such tone with the spymaster. But he also knew that Walsingham needed him, which made him feel secure enough to pull such stunts.

Walsingham waved him off, resisting the urge to smile.

A man bowed as he saw Walsingham approach. He was dressed in black breeches, white shirt and green west, his attire overly simple for the palace. The looks of this fellow informed Walsingham that he was almost at his journey's end.

Although Walsingham made it his business to know every nook and cranny of the Whitehall Palace, he rarely visited the part to its very south, the five or six corridors that housed the skeleton staff of palace servants.

As he progressed through the palace, he observed the change that took place as he went. The tapestries and painting on the walls were becoming smaller until they disappeared entirely. The same could be noted about the sculptures, chandeliers and other elements of luxury. The walls around him were now nothing but bare brick and the floor was rough gray stone.

The wide gallery Walsingham stood in now, ended sixty or seventy yards ahead. A dusty, chipped, gray statue standing against the wall was his only company. Sir Francis approached for a closer look and saw a tiny maiden, her beauty set in stone. The sprite, as the folded wings behind her back suggested, smiled brightly through the thick cobweb of cracks. She sat on a bench, her feet and the tips of her long flowing hair dipped dreamily into the dust-filled basin below.

Walsingham recognized it at once. He knew it to be an ill-fated fountain, ordered by Queen Ann Boleyn for her garden, merely weeks before her imprisonment. By the time it was ready and delivered, the queen's head was long since parted with her body. King Henry looked it over, gloomily furrowing his brow, and with the jerk of his head, ordered the servants to get it out of his sight and get rid of it. His order was only half complied with, since he never saw the fountain again, but at the same time, the sprite had never made it out of the palace. After a few years of being unceremoniously shifted back and forth, it finally took permanent residence in servants' quarters.

To the fountain's right, there were two tall windows without curtains, bathing the corridor in gray winter light. To its left, the wall opened into five separate galleries. Leaving the sprite behind, Walsingham entered the third door down from the fountain. This corridor was long, narrow and scarcely lit. A maid, who was rushing about her business, curtsied deeply as he walked by. Walsingham could feel her fearful, yet curious glance on the back of his head, but she dared not to stay. He waited until she was gone and knocked on the fifteenth door to his left.

"Enter," he heard Victoria speak. The door squeaked slightly, letting him in. The first thing he saw, was Victoria bent over a big embroidery frame.

"I waited for you to come for ages, Margaret," she said, without looking up. "I thought you were…"

Walsingham cleared his throat lightly. He could not help but smile when he saw the start Victoria gave when she realized who had come to call. This tall figure, in sweeping dark robes, standing in her room was clearly the last thing she expected.

"Your G-grace!" she stammered, jumping up and curtsying. Walsingham inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement to her greeting.

"Please do forgive my unexpected visit," Walsingham smiled encouragingly, seeing that the girl was trembling like a leaf in the wind. "I meant not to alarm you."

Sir Francis paused, giving her a long look. In the sanctuary of her own room, Victoria was dressed so simply, she could have easily been mistaken for a laundry maid or a peasant. She wore a plain white skirt and blouse with a maroon bodice. A gray woolen shawl completed the ensemble. Her hair was braided loosely in a plait so long it reached her waist. Walsingham made a mental note that this costume, although uncomplicated, looked much more flattering on her than her Spanish dresses; her full chest framed fabulously by cut of the bodice. Victoria blushed as she caught his look, shakily trying to push stray locks of hair out of her face.

"I have not disturbed anything, I trust?" Walsingham asked.

"No, no, not at all," Victoria replied hastily, her voice still trembling slightly. "I am sure my surprise is understandable. I never deemed myself worthy of your visit."

"There is a simple enough reason," Walsingham replied pleasantly. "I have found your necklace, my Lady. You must have dropped it in my chambers."

"Oh," Victoria said, visibly relieved. "How fortuitous! I was much distressed, having noticed it to be missing."

"Are you always so careless with your possessions, Lady York?" Walsingham asked.

"Quite the opposite, Your Grace," Victoria said, reddening again. "Unfortunately, my mind was quite preoccupied that morning, which had mired my attention a great deal."

Walsingham understood. Being caught between the intense sensations of the night before and the shame of having to hurry through the corridors in the early hour of the morning, looking so obviously ruffled, must have dazed this poor girl quite a bit.

Walsingham nodded, looking around.

"So this is where you live?" he asked.

Victoria nodded.

"I would have thought a lady of noble birth merited larger quarters?" he continued.

"I can not boast a noble ancestry, Your Grace," Victoria said, shrugging. "Even if I could, I would still prefer it here. While these lodgings are within the servants' quarters, they are mine alone. The other ladies have to share the rooms located in the more well-appointed part of the palace."

"And you find it difficult to share, my Lady?" Walsingham asked, chuckling.

"Not at all, Your Grace," Victoria said. "I treasure peace above all my possessions. Every vacancy in those rooms is highly sought after, which breeds constant bickering and schemes. I despise it with all my heart and find it the most wretched atmosphere to live in. Goodness!" she gasped. "Where are my manners? Please, do sit down!" she offered hurriedly, snatching a basketful of yarn off the armchair and tucking it under the bed.

"Please, my dear," Walsingham said, sitting down, "do not look so worried. As you must know by now, I do not bite."

Gingerly, Victoria lowered herself on the edge of the chair she previously occupied.

"Your Grace must forgive me," Victoria said, a first smile blossoming finally on her face. "My nervousness could be excused in some degree by the fact that I happen to be most inexpert when it comes to receiving guests of such important stature. Before your visit, my friend, Lady Margaret Ashton, remained the highest ranking guest I had ever entertained."

"Margaret Ashton," Walsingham repeated slowly, remembering. "One of Her Majesty's ladies-in-waiting… Is she, by chance, related to Sir Tobias Ashton, the ambassador to Amsterdam?"

"Very much so," Victoria nodded. "She is married to his son, Sir Liam."

"What is her relation to you?" Walsingham asked.

"We have known each other ever since we were little," Victoria said, fiddling with the tips of the shawl on her lap. "She had proven herself to be the most kind and caring friend anyone could ever wish for. I owe her my current appointment."

"Which is?" Walsingham inquired.

"I am a seamstress, Your Grace," Victoria replied. "I also report to Lady Myles, who, as Your Grace is well aware, is in charge of keeping Her Majesty's wardrobe."

"This is your work?" Walsingham nodded at the embroidery frame, leaning in for a better look. A blossoming cherry branch, gracefully curved, was stitched across the top of the white linen cloth, showering loose blossoms and petals across the entire stretch of the fabric. It did not require a trained eye to recognize a great skill behind the work done. The colors were matched together so well and the texture was so smooth, the design looked more like something produced by brush and paint, rather than needle and thread.

"Quite remarkable," Sir Francis said, impressed.

Victoria blushed again.

"I was told that Her Majesty finds my work adequate, for which I am very thankful," she said quietly.

Both fell silent for some time, Walsingham resuming his observation of the room.

"As you well know, my dear," Walsingham said, catching Victoria's questioning look. "Men have always branded curiosity to be a woman's sin, an assessment I am strongly inclined to disagree with. I myself happen to possess this particular trait to the greatest extent. Do I have your consent to satisfy it?"

"You are welcome to it," Victoria said with another small smile.

The room was indeed very little. It was barely enough to house a small bed underneath a single window, a dresser and a wardrobe of black wood. A single chair, an armchair by a tiny fireplace and the embroidery frame occupied the remaining space. While kept exceptionally clean, it was evident that the occupant of this room harbored no riches. The furniture had a shabby look about it, sporting quite a few chips and bumps. The doors of the wardrobe were parted slightly, revealing the total of four dresses, including the two Walsingham already saw her wear. A single, particularly small jewelry box stood by the battered old mirror on the dresser. The wickerwork armchair he was currently occupying had also seen its better days. An elaborate quilt upon the bed, stacks of multicolored fabrics here and there, baskets of yarn and thread gave the room a slightly chaotic, but a somewhat jovial, carefree look.

"I beg Your Grace's forgiveness," Victoria said apologetically as he studied the room. "Had I known you were coming, I would have tidied up."

"Well, since there was no way for you to know that," Walsingham smiled at her again, "it would hardly be fair to find you at fault, would it not?"

Victoria nodded, beaming shyly.

"As much as I would like to further oblige my curiosity," Walsingham said, standing up. "I really have quite a lot to be getting on with. By your leave, Lady Victoria, I bid you farewell."

He nodded his head again in response to her bow before turning to leave.

"Your Grace has forgotten to return my necklace," Victoria reminded quietly. "I am honored," she added, "that Your Grace were so kind as to go out of your way to return it."

"Oh, no, my dear," Walsingham said with the thin smile. "I do not have it on me, of course. These are dangerous times we live in. One can not afford to be so careless as to walk around with jewelry in his pockets. Your necklace remains safely on my nightstand."

Approaching Victoria again, Walsingham grabbed her by the underarms, lifting her up slightly. Without a word to spare, he started planting long slow kisses on her neck, gradually making his way towards her chest. Her warm creamy skin, thrown copiously with golden freckles, smelled of lavender. Victoria's breath quickened as she, once again, was at his complete mercy.

"You will have to come for it," Walsingham muttered between kisses.

Releasing Victoria as abruptly as he seized her, Walsingham turned and walked away. Victoria remained rooted to the spot in the middle of her room, gasping for breath.

**~o~O~o~**

A gust of cold wind rattled the windowpanes abruptly. Whistling like a highwayman on the prowl, it strived to intimidate the people within. In its shrill howling during the cold nights, sounded the footsteps of the frigid December.

But here, in the warm bedchamber, the roaring fire in the ornate grate remained an infallible sentry of human comfort. The crackling of the logs mingled cozily with the frustrated whistling of the wind, diminished and defeated by the thick walls.

It was nearing midnight again. Walsingham lay in his bed with Victoria by his side. The feel of her young body against his warmed him a great deal better than any fire. On their third night together she became brave enough to drape an arm around his chest.

Observing her calm face in the firelight as her head lay on his shoulder, Walsingham chuckled noiselessly. There was something in Victoria's face that made her look remarkably like her neighbor, the marble sprite. Whether the likeness was hiding in the arches of her eyebrows or lurked behind the slope of her nose, it was hard to say. The resemblance was fleeting, but nonetheless it was there. Victoria noticed him watching her and looked up. Sir Francis smiled at her, gifting his fair companion with as slow, gentle kiss.

"Do you remember our talk of curiosity, child?" Walsingham asked, pulling away.

"I do, my Lord," she replied, pressing her body even closer to his.

"Would you indulge me once more?" Walsingham said with a thin smile, stroking Victoria's back with his fingertips.

"I shall try my very best, my Lord," Victoria smiled.

"Tell me, child," Walsingham asked slowly, "how does a maiden, as virtuous and young as yourself, come to be in a bed of a man old enough to be her father, providing that he is not the man she was forced to marry?"

Her face darkened at once, like a summer day intruded upon by a rain cloud. Victoria lowered her gaze, her whole look suggesting that in this singular matter she was not at all inclined to be obliging. This could not last long and Walsingham knew it. Lady Victoria was a person of that rare breed who normally wore their heart on their sleeve. Once they developed even the slightest of bonds with a person, the depths of their very souls would come spilling out at the slightest provocation. Knowing the effect he had on her, Sir Francis was sure that she would not be able to deny answering his question. And right he was, Walsingham saw, as the wary frown melted from her face, replaced by an expression of humble acquiescence.

"You are an honorable man, Your Grace," Lady Victoria began finally, looking straight into Walsingham's eyes, "and I imagine that in your position, you are most accustomed in dealing with secrets. Therefore, I feel safe entrusting you with mine…"

**~o~**


	5. Chapter 5

**~o~**

"_Tell me, child," Walsingham asked slowly, "how does a maiden, as virtuous and young as yourself, come to be in the bed of a man old enough to be her father, providing that he is not the man she was forced to marry?"_

_Her face darkened at once, like a summer day intruded upon by a rain cloud. Victoria lowered her gaze, her whole look suggesting that in this singular matter she was not at all inclined to be obliging. This could not last long and Walsingham knew it. Lady Victoria was a person of that rare breed who normally wore their heart on their sleeve. Once they developed even the slightest of bonds with a person, the depths of their very souls would come spilling out at the slightest provocation. Knowing the effect he had on her, Sir Francis was sure that she would not be able to deny answering his question. And right he was, Walsingham saw, as the wary frown melted from her face, replaced by an expression of humble acquiescence._

"_You are an honorable man, Your Grace," Lady Victoria began finally, looking straight into Walsingham's eyes, "and I imagine that in your position, you are most accustomed in dealing with secrets. Therefore, I feel safe entrusting you with mine…"_

**~o~O~o~**

"My father, Sir Charles York," Victoria began, "was a noble of small rank. He owned but five villages near the town of Penrith. No one knows where he came from or who his parents were. It has been told that he turned up in a basket on the church steps, with nothing to him but a name, a date and a grant for the lands he was to own tucked into his blankets. The rumor had it that he was the bastard son of Sir Godfrey of York, who, despite being married, was known to have quite the wandering eye. Penrith and the lands surrounding it were known to be the part of the grander York domain, and only a member of the family could have bestowed those lands upon the infant. Whether it was true or not, no one ever discovered.

The child grew up to be a fine young man, a noble soul in a frail body. He had not once tried to uncover the mystery of his birth, deducing wisely that it was made secret for a reason and was best remain that way. He was happy with what he had, and was a good master to his people. While his lands were quite limited, they proved to be particularly fertile and brought their owner considerable wealth.

When Sir Charles grew older, he began using his money to travel, counting it to be his one true passion. When he had enough of England, he braved the lands beyond. As he traveled through Scotland, he met a fair maiden who clamed his heart. Her name was Tabitha McArthur. She was of simple birth, but her brother, who pledged his life to the Catholic Church, was very well underway to becoming a bishop of Irvine."

Victoria smiled.

"She was a beauty, my mother," she continued dreamily. "At least my father told me so. Unlike him, she was healthy, strong and quick to smile; an arm he could lean on. He had lost his heart to her the moment they met, and in a month's time she became his wife. He was truly happy for once; an orphan, condemned to a forlorn life, he was now no longer alone…

But it was not to be. My poor mother died in childbirth, not two years after they were married. Weak as he was, her death had crippled my father completely. While Sir Charles doted upon the daughter his wife left him, it could not ease his sorrow. I have no doubt that he loved me deeply, but his love for my mother was greater still. Without her, he withered slowly like a tree cut at the root. Whenever he would see my hair undone or look straight into my eyes, he would weep and turn away. For the longest time I though myself to be ugly, for it was the mere sight of me that would put him in such a state. I stood in front of the mirror each day, trying to understand what it was that wounded him so. Only later, my nurse told me that as I grew, I took more and more after my mother, and it was her he saw when he looked at me. I tried to comfort him the best a child knew how, but to no avail. He died when I was nine. My uncle, now the bishop of Irvine, came to read his last rights."

Victoria's face darkened unexpectedly.

"I heard as he tried to sway my father as he lay on his deathbed, to give his house and domain to the church to save his soul," Victoria said, frowning. "As hard as he tried to bend a dying man to his will, my poor father did not falter. He said "One knows not what is good and what is ill until he is judged for it, but this I know: 'tis ill to abandon a beloved child to a life of poverty. I knew not who my parents were, but I was left enough to keep me, and I should do no less for her." He died, thinking he had made me safe…" A bitter chuckle escaped Victoria's lips.

"My uncle was a wily man," she continued sardonically. "After all, he was clever enough to become a bishop when he was only thirty-five years of age. At once he reasoned that a young child could not rule the land. He stepped in quickly, proving at once that he would be a much better guardian to me than old Father Augustine, the abbot of our family chapel and my father's advisor for years. After all, he was my kin and senior by standing, closer to the eye of God."

Victoria smiled mirthlessly.

"Sir Charles York, my dear father, died on a Thursday," she continued. As she spoke, with every word, the color drained from her cheeks. "Before the nightfall, bishop McArthur had all the documents drawn and signed, binding me to him as his lawful ward. As I cried and screamed, he took me from my house where my father lay yet unburied, taking me to his home. After a seven day journey, we reached Irvine on the Thursday morning.

That very night…" Victoria's hands clenched convulsively. "He c-came to my bed," the confession escaped her with great pain. Victoria hurriedly raised a clenched fist to her mouth and bit down on her knuckle. Her eyes, dry and unblinking, were fixed on the dancing flames in the fireplace. Walsingham now regretted asking her. Unfeeling as he had grown to be, he felt pity stir in his heart as the floodgates of her soul opened, releasing the waves of poison within.

"I could do nothing," Victoria whispered, once she had gained her composure, "as he pinned me down and took what he wanted… I never could. Sometimes, when I fought, he would strike me to stay quiet. Or sometimes, as I lay wordlessly, he would strike me to make me cry out. For ten years, I was afraid of the night. Even now, sometimes I wake up in the darkness as a floorboard creaks, petrified with fear, thinking that he is coming for me once more…"

"As I came of certain age," she continued, "he began treating me with some mixtures; horrible revolting brews, to prevent me from conceiving. Now my days were spent retching over a bucket with my insides churning on fire, and my nights still belonged to that incubus in the cloth of the holy man.

Growing up, I mostly kept to myself. Even though I managed to develop a few friendships, they lacked closeness. Closeness comes from opening your heart, and how could I open my heart to any of them? How could I tell them that the man who spoke with such passion from the pulpit, was the stuff of my nightmares? How could I confide in anyone that the very hands that he raised to bless them were responsible for my bruised flesh?

He deduced everything correctly. If he were to take any other woman for his pleasure, be it a whore or a chambermaid, there would be talk. But who would ever believe the words of a child, even if she have the courage speak?

I would not dare open my mouth. Not without risking him exposing me. At first, I feared he would poison me should I disobey him. Later, however, my understanding of him changed. He was not an evil man, at least not in the most literal sense. He simply lacked all understanding when it came to the wellbeing of others. He was his own God and only care. People were no more than objects to him, hurdles to be manipulated for ampler gain. I am sure he gave not a thought to the pain he inflicted upon me. Also, it would make no sense to be killing me, for my presence was necessary for his enjoyment. If he were to dispose of me, who would take my place? I was the only girl he could keep in his house without arousing suspicion.

But he could do much worse. He could expose my damaged state, ruining my marriage prospects and my only chance of ever escaping him. For this singular reason, I resolved to bide my time and oblige whatever he pleased."

"In my fifteenth year, I thought that my luck had finally changed," Victoria said slowly. "I met a wonderful young man in our parish, Sir William Avery, four years my senior. His family was among the richest in our parts. We first saw each other in church where his family attended mass every morning. He was courteous, funny, handsome, everything a maiden could ever want. After three month of our courtship, William told me that his father had agreed to arrange our marriage. I was happy, the happiest I have ever been, for it meant I was soon to be free of my prison…"

Victoria blinked, her eyes brimming with tears.

"The night before Sir James Avery was due to cross the threshold of my house, I could not sleep. I lay in my bed, lost in my own dreams. I counted all the things I would like to do after I was married. Perhaps," she said slowly, "had my hope been not so strong, my latter disappointment would not have been so devastating…

When I heard the coach halt in our front yard, my blood boiled. After quarter an hour of this torture, I realized I could stay in my room no longer. My curiosity chased me out of the door and towards my uncle's study."

Victoria paused.

"It is not in my habit to spy on conversations," she said, blushing somewhat. "Yet, judging by the state I found myself in, I knew for certain that if I remain unaware of what went on beyond the closed doors, my heart should explode within me. Deciding to part with the rules of propriety just this once, I put my ear to the keyhole.

I was just in time. They had just finished exchanging pleasantries. Sir James informed my uncle that his son had finally expressed a noble desire to marry. My uncle sounded delighted. It was always hard to tell what he really felt, for he was truly a man with a hundred faces. Clapping his hands with mirth, the bishop inquired as to who was to become William's bride. Later I understood that all this was just part of the farce, for as clever as he was, he had already deduced the answer. He pretended to be both astounded and flattered as he was told that young William desired to marry his niece.

Here it was, the moment of my freedom. My heart pounded wildly as I waited for my uncle's reply. The roar of my excitement was so loud, it quashed the warnings of my mind, and for a moment I had forgotten what sort of man I was dealing with. For the longest of moments, I waited for him to speak, yet when he opened his mouth, I wished that he had not spoken.

Somberly, my uncle thanked Sir James for the honor he had bestowed upon this household. Then again, my uncle said, as a man of God, it was his duty to put the welfare of his flock above all else, his own family ties included. While overjoyed that such a respectable and pious family had chosen to take a bride of his own blood, out of admiration towards the Avery household, he could not conceal certain troubling facts. He said… He said that that there was a great doubt in his heart that his niece would make a suitable match for William. After all, he knew the boy since his birth and he was always a credit to his family. His niece, on the other hand, had always been nothing but trouble. While trying to present herself as a chaste maiden, indeed she was most indiscriminate in her dealing with men and in fact, she was no longer a virgin. Such behavior was most aggrieving to him, for he always loved her as though his own daughter.

I felt my knees buckle as I heard this man shamelessly pass his crime for my own. I slid to the floor and remained slumped against the door. Somewhere on the edge of my dimmed consciousness, I had heard him drive the last nail in the coffin of my good name.

With his compassion so perfectly staged, he said that while the behavior of his poor Victoria was highly questionable, it was quite simple to explain, for she grew up knowing no mother and with no one to instruct her in the ways of life. She was an orphan, his dearest niece, and the only family he had left. Therefore, it was with a heavy heart that he expressed his humble opinion that young William deserved a much better bride than her. Above all else, he would not recommend for such a pious Christian family to take in a girl accustomed to such deceitful and unchaste conduct. While it was his sacred Christian duty to care for her, he concluded, nonetheless, he was absolutely certain that his present candor was not misplaced."

Victoria hurriedly wiped a tear that rolled down her cheek.

"Sir James never spoke a word. In the end he thanked my uncle for the concern he showed for his family. When he turned to leave, I saw the appalled look on his face, but it was nothing compared to the look William gave me the next morning." Another tear streaked down her cheek and dripped down, leaving a tiny spot on the bed sheet. "After one glance at him I understood that anything I might say would be of no use…

Although no one but Sir James was privy to this conversation, the news spread fast. I suspect that Sir James kept no secrets from his wife and she, in turn, kept no secrets from her two daughters. Regardless of the cause, the effect was the same. Soon I found that no one wished to speak to me or even sit next to me in church. Thus, although I strived not to cause him any displeasure, my uncle had done the very thing I feared most by ruining not only my chances to ever marry, but to even live out the rest of my life with my honor intact.

While high society spurned me, I turned to the less privileged instead. Maids, seamstresses and gypsies cared not for my apparent indiscretions. They valued every coin I gave them or every bit of food I brought them from my table. I have learned much in this company, much more than I could have hoped for. There was one lady, Agatha, a widow with seven small children, who earned her livelihood with embroidery. As she taught this craft to her eldest daughter, she asked me whether I desired to learn as well. I had no objections, for she was a wonderful and patient teacher. My uncle could not care less, as long as I was home before nightfall to perform my duties.

I had found my refuge in this. If I could not go out of my house, I would sit hours on end by my window, making stitch after stitch. I had no more hopes for my life. Death became the only savior I could ever expect. We were mortal, my uncle and I, and sooner or later death would come to part us. I cared not for who she would take first, for I was already long dead. I died when that man first touched me, and I died all over again when he let my shame be known. Whenever he would come to me at night, I lay still as stone in my bed. For all the result his actions produced, he could have been holding a corpse in his embrace.

One good thing came of it. In my lethargy, he grew bored with me and his calls became less frequent. Seeing such improvement, I entrusted myself wholly into the hands of God. Every time I prayed, I beseeched Him to guide me and give me strength for years to come. By God's infinite mercy, my rescue came much sooner than I expected, in a face of a person I had least hoped to see."

"In my early childhood," Victoria continued, "I had a good friend, Margaret Wainwright. We spend our days on end, wondering through the woods and fields, talking about a million things. We always did everything together, be it swimming in the river or sneaking apples from the neighbors' tree. Margaret's mother had to send out servants every evening to search for us, for she feared we would not return home otherwise. Margaret was truly like a sister I never had.

Margaret's father, Sir John Wainwright, was rarely home, spending much of his time in London. A year or so before my father's death, he received a post in the embassy to Amsterdam. He accepted it and took his family with him. I had received four letters from her before I was taken to Irvine. I suspect she had written many more before she finally gave up, for no answer was coming.

Four years ago, Margaret married the younger of the ambassador's two sons, Sir Liam Ashton, who worshiped the ground she walked upon since the first time he laid his eyes upon her. It was not by choice they both lived in Amsterdam, and her husband was greatly pleased to learn that his new bride was quite as bored with it as he was. Happily, the newlyweds returned to England. They gave each other a word that one should show the other the places of their youth. They stayed in London at first, in the very house where Sir Liam was born and spent his early childhood. Among other things, they were also introduced to court. Because his father, Sir Tobias, is a much-celebrated diplomat, Sir Liam received a seat in the House of Lords and his new wife became Her Majesty's lady in waiting. However, the young couple requested a postponement before assuming their new duties, and were mercifully granted half a year to use as they saw fit.

As per their agreement, the Ashtons traveled north towards Penrith. Margaret was most eager to introduce her husband to one old friend of hers, who was in fact as good as her own sister."

Victoria sighed.

"It was much of an unpleasant surprise for her, when she found no such friend upon her arrival. What angered her even more was that no one, including the servants in my old house, could tell her anything conclusive about my whereabouts. The old servants had all been let go, and the new ones had almost no knowledge of the former owners of the house. Margaret was always sharp beyond her age and it did not take her long to arrive at the conclusion that something must be amiss.

After a month of searching, she had finally found Father Augustine, blind with age and dying on the street. Margaret took him in and made sure his last days were comfortable. He departed this life two weeks later, but not before telling her where to find me…

Imagine my astonishment when a beautiful, well dressed, wealthy lady threw herself upon me at the marketplace. It took me quite awhile to recognize my old friend in the woman she had become. She, on the other hand, maintained that I had not changed a bit. Margaret and her husband invited me to dine with them, and I must confess, after my lengthy seclusion, it felt marvelous to be in a company of such an old, loving friend.

After dinner, she took me to the garden. Tucking her hand under my elbow, she smiled at me. In her usual playful manner, she pouted, saying what a pity it was that she had to return me to my husband soon. She also expressed hope that I would return tomorrow with my stronger half in tow, and both she and her husband were much looking forward to being introduced to him… Margaret chattered away happily as I choked back my tears. When she finally asked me what my new name was, I could bear it no longer. I flung myself upon her neck, crying on her shoulder as I never cried before…

I had told her everything that night, no detail spared. By the time I finished, she looked more like an enraged cat than the well-bred lady I met just before. Falling to her knees and clasping my hands passionately in hers, she pledged to find a way to set me free.

And so she did. The next day we met, Margaret asked me whether I had any special talent. She was delighted to learn that I was quite proficient with needle and thread. Clapping her hands together, she ordered me to bring forth a sample of my work. Upon seeing it, she actually jumped up and started waltzing around the room. When I, much amazed by this conduct, asked her to explain herself, she had told me that the cloth she was holding in her hand was my very salvation.

She then told me that she had received a place of Her Majesty's lady in waiting, and was due to return to London in two months to assume her duties. When she would finally depart for London, she intended to take me with her. I told her that my uncle would never let me go. Oh, Margaret laughed darkly, he would have no say. She would at once write me a recommendation letter, addressed to Lady Gloria Myles. The Queen has a large wardrobe and is extremely adept in fashions. Virtually an army of seamstresses is required to cater to her needs. At their last meeting, Lady Myles complained to her that Her Majesty's wardrobe was hugely shorthanded, and upon seeing my work, she was bound to accept me. While my uncle might have been one of the most important men in Irvine, he could not ignore the summons of the royal court. True to her word, Margaret sent out the parcel on that very day.

For two weeks, I lived with bated breath. I could not sleep, I could not eat, I could not think. To my great fortune, Margaret was never the one to be worried easily, and her certitude was the only thing giving me strength.

Just as she expected, the letter came in two weeks. I could hardly believe my ears when Margaret read it to me. It appeared that Lady Myles was much impressed by my abilities, and requested my presence at once. It was a victory, but the smaller of the two.

Holding the letter in my hand, I went to my uncle's study. I still know not what it was that made me so bold on that day. Perhaps when staring in the face of death, one is driven to such summits of madness, one becomes unfeeling of even the weightiest of threats. I knew that staying in that house was worse than death. It was the ever-lasting nightmare without the chance of waking.

I handed my uncle the letter and I watched him read it. When he finished, he looked up at me with his pale eyes and sourly asked me what was it that I expected of him. I said that I wished to leave and I would do so with or without his permission. He shrugged dispassionately, saying that it was no secret for him that I had always been ungrateful for the care he provided. Moreover, he was growing bored with my constant melancholy state and if I wished to leave, he would not stop me.

But, he continued, what was to compensate him for all the trouble he went through to care for me? My whole body trembling, I inquired as to what he had in mind. Opening a drawer of his desk, he took out a few sheets of parchment. He explained them to be the deeds for my inheritance. The church would put it to an excellent use, while I had no need for it, not where I was going. I could only leave his house after I had signed them over.

What was I to do? I had almost no memory left of that place. It was rightfully mine, but my desire for it was nigh nonexistent, compared to my desire to never set my eyes upon that man again. It took me but a minute to sign all three documents. When I finished, I turned around and left without ever looking back.

In an hour my belongings were packed and accompanied me to Margaret's lodgings. I spent the rest of the day paying my farewells to the few friends that I had. Early on the morrow, we left for London."

Victoria sighed, smoothing a sheet on her lap.

"Women have but four possessions to insure their good fortune," she said pensively, "beauty, riches, a noble name and their virtue. It is an honor to take into your house a woman of noble name, even though she might be poor, not stunningly beautiful or devoid of virtue; a woman's beauty makes a man blind to the absence of the other three, the riches _pay _him to look the other way, and a woman's virtue insures the man that he at least is getting his bride whole and all to himself, even though he has been denied the rest. I am a daughter of a bastard son, with not a penny in my pocket; I am not particularly beautiful and I was robbed of my virtue, before even knowing its value… I have no doubt that is some way my life has proven to be unfortunate, for I have lost it all before aging twenty. Yet, I count myself blessed that I was able to escape with my life and sanity intact; I shall continue to be so until my last breath."

Silence, the longest one yet, overtook the bedchamber. Propped on his elbow as he lay on his side, Walsingham surveyed Victoria as she sat with her back against the headboard.

"Have you thought of seeking justice?" Sir Francis asked, ending the prolonged pause.

"Worldly justice will bring me no salvation," Victoria replied, "for it takes the word of the powerful and influential over the one of the weak and dependant. The only justice I seek is the one that occurs after the course of the mortal life is run. Lord God is the only one capable of impartial judgment, and He is the only judge I shall submit to willingly. Here on Earth, I shall be called a liar and a whore for trying to place blame on such high officer of the church. I can not stand any more shame than I have already endured…"

"It shall be quite a long time," Walsingham said, "before the court of your choosing shall review your grievance."

"For me," Victoria replied, "not for him. My uncle died of a heart rupture not two years ago. It is ironic," she smiled sadly, "for he was killed by something I thought he never had."

"Life is filled with irony, my child," Walsingham mused. "While it changes its color or taste in order to pass itself for something entirely different, it remains an ever-present law of this world. So, you have spoken quite plainly of what brought you to London, but what yet remains to be explained is what brought you _here_."

Victoria blushed, lowering her eyes.

"I have heard that while Your Grace does not care to please," Victoria whispered, clearly uncomfortable with making such a confession, "you are quite skilled in handling women."

"Is that the only reason?" Walsingham asked.

"No," Victoria replied, not looking at him still. "It is not a secret here, at court, that your conquests are many, yet you do not boast them. I have lived here for three years, and all this time I hear the same talk as I pass through the corridors. Men and women alike, delight in relaying their conquests to each other, leaving no detail concealed. I do not know what I would have done, had I heard my name come up in such conversation."

Walsingham raised his eyebrows.

"A fine answer, my Lady," he said, "as well as an honest one."

"It is one of the few lessons I remember from my childhood," Victoria replied. "Father Augustine had once told me that truthfulness, generosity, compassion and forgiveness are the only riches that can not be taken away by force; one has to willingly part with them. Whilst one parts with those four, but remains a possessor of everything else in this world, he is to be pitied as a fool, who throws away diamonds while treasuring the pieces of broken glass. While I find that at times it is difficult for me to forgive, be compassionate, or part with certain things for the sake of others, truthfulness remains the only wealth within my grasp."

Walsingham reached out, and grabbing her chin lightly, turned her to face him.

"I sense you have not told me everything," he said, looking into her eyes.

Victoria shook her head.

"Go on," Sir Francis ordered.

"For once in my life," Victoria whispered, the red on her cheeks deepening its hue, "I wanted to know what it felt like to give my body to someone I chose."

Walsingham smiled, pulling her to lie down next to him. Burying his fingers in her auburn hair, he drew her into a kiss.

"Was I able to fulfill your expectations?" he asked playfully as he pulled away.

Victoria blushed once more, lowering her eyes.

"You had exceeded them, my Lord," she confessed, "to an extent I can not possibly describe."

Walsingham nodded, chuckling noiselessly.

"If you remember," he asked, fixing his eyes on hers, "on our first meeting, I made you a certain offer, which, in a sense, you have declined. Now, after hearing your story, I feel compelled to repeat it. My dear child, is there something I can do for you?"

Lady York shook her head firmly.

"No, Your Grace." Victoria looked at Sir Francis again. "I have told you my story for the singular reason that you have requested me to do so. It is not my intention to gain something in return.

She fell quiet, looking away at the fire dancing in the grate. The bottom log collapsed as it burned through, causing a fountain of sparks as the rest of the firewood came crashing down after it.

"I have made my peace with it," Victoria said. "I am promised a place of a governess in the Ashton household, effective as soon as Margaret bears a child. She and her good husband are the kindest people imaginable, and I shall happily raise their child with all the love that I possess."

Walsingham raised his eyebrows. He expected this, but nevertheless he was pleasantly surprised that Victoria had passed yet another test.

"But there must be something you would have me do?" Walsingham asked, looking into Victoria's eyes.

"Yes," she replied quietly.

"What would that be, child?" Sir Francis inquired.

Victoria smiled shyly. To Walsingham's surprise, she reached out to stroke his cheek. Her hand felt warm and gentle against his skin.

"I would have you kiss me again, my Lord," she said, her fingers threading through his beard.

Walsingham gave Victoria a small smile, pulling her closer.

"I knew not," he spoke, "that my kisses hold such value."

"They do," Victoria said. "I shall always count them among the things I hold most dear."

Walsingham looked at her carefully. It was one of his famous searching looks, half-obscured by the lowered eyelids; the one that looked so calm, but in fact was anything but. Nonetheless, even this most skilled glance could not detect a trace of pretence on Victoria's face while she spoke. Not a single shadow clouded her blue eyes as she looked at him. As unlikely as it was, in his arms lay one of the very few honest people who dared to inhabit this ocean of endless lies, otherwise called the royal court. Although she lost bits of her flesh and soul as she trudged through the barbed thicket of her life, the goodness of her heart remained intact.

Scooping Lady Victoria into his arms, Walsingham kissed her. Her lips parted eagerly to meet his. So, he had finally gotten the answer to why they tasted so different from hundreds of others. It was something of a novelty to know that the person in his arms was truly grateful for his every touch. Who knew such an innocent blend of honesty and gratitude would make such a potent aphrodisiac?

"My dear lady," he murmured, their lips still touching, "women might be satisfied with kisses and heartfelt admissions alone. Men, however, require something much more physical to reach the heights of their satisfaction. Now that I have indulged you, may I be permitted an indulgence of my own?"

"Your Grace surely knows," Victoria said softly, "that it is my greatest pleasure to indulge you."

He knew what it was that she wanted. Such a young, gentle creature, she must have craved love with every fiber of her being. He could not give her this, but somehow he thought she did not ask this of him. It was an illusion that she sought, a shadow on the rippling water, a ghost in the night, the heat of passion without substance. It was meaningless, but it was the best she could ever hope to find. This he could give her.

Walsingham pulled her in again, kissing her deeply…

**~o~**


	6. Chapter 6

**~o~**

The first snow fell thick over the city of London. Quietly, it bundled the sleeping streets into a deep white blanket. Countless downy snowflakes waltzed slowly in the night air, making no distinction between whether they landed upon the roof of a wretched hovel, a well-to-do merchant shop or even Her Majesty Gloriana's own palace. For once, all the rooftops looked alike, clean and dazzlingly white.

The Christmas Eve found Lord Walsingham by the fire in the sitting room of his house in Barn Elms. A week before, Lady Ursula has returned from Hampshire. Knowing that she detested their house on Seething Lane due to its close proximity to The Tower, her husband decided, for the time being, to move the household to Surrey.

Their house in London indeed bore no resemblance to their residence in Barn Elms. The manor on Seething Lane was a tall, imposing edifice. Even on a brightest sunny day, the majority of the rooms remained overcast. Combined with tall ceilings and dark tapestries on the walls, the house looked not at all welcoming. Personally, Walsingham did not mind the fact; he even liked it, for he found such atmosphere to be favorable for contemplation. In addition, it was much closer to the Palace of Whitehall. But, to please Lady Ursula, he was prepared to forgo his own comforts.

The Barn Elms residence was much a smaller structure. It counted no more than a dozen rooms, and had a much lighter presence about it. Surrounded by a beautiful garden, which in turn was enclosed within an orchard, it was truly a sheltered and beautiful spot. Day and night, soft rushing of water pervaded the surroundings, the Thames flowing but a quarter mile away.

The more the blizzard raged on, the more inviting looked the roaring fire in the sitting room grate. Sir Francis, a robe of black silk over the shirt and breeches, was settled comfortably in an armchair, perusing a thick volume bound in aged brown leather. His usual cap was missing, letting his curly hair run somewhat amok. A glass of his favorite Bordeaux waited patiently on the small side table.

Lady Ursula sat opposite to him. Unlike her husband, she was dressed fully and with exceptional neatness. Not a fold of her dark gray dress was out of place and not a hair strayed from her coif, as she sat straight-backed in her seat, knitting needles dancing in her fingers. She was barely forty, yet her very air made her look much older. She might have even looked attractive, if it were not for the strictness in her face. A small, rather sharp nose did not help the matters. Even the scarf, neatly arranged to conceal the entire cut of her dress, spoke quite clearly that its owner was a strictly pious and chaste lady.

A loud purring issued from her lap, where her brown pet tabby, Narcissus, was curled up in great comfort. Just a few minutes before, he made quick fun of a stray ball of yarn on the hearthrug, but bored quickly, and with a throaty meow, jumped straight onto Ursula's knee. Despite looking so well-fed and docile, this great striped rascal was in fact a savage fighter and a shameless Casanova when it so pleased him. However, Narcissus hid those inclinations particularly well in the presence of his mistress, who he seemed to have sincerely adored. He looked like nothing but a perfectly decent feline as he lounged on Lady Walsingham's lap, fire reflecting in his partly open amber eyes.

Stealing an occasional amused glance at lazy Narcissus, Sir Francis leafed through _The Divine Comedy_. In the time of his youth, when he was a student in the University of Padua, he discovered this most interesting piece of literature. Being a possessor of a most agile, developed mind, Walsingham was constantly plagued by the desire to increase his knowledge, which lead him to read a great multitude of books. Nonetheless, from time to time, he returned his attention to this great creation of Dante and read it from cover to cover.

There were three English translations of _The Divine Comedy_at the time, though Walsingham always preferred to read it in Italian, for no translation would ever rival the original. His Italian was decent, yet not perfect; while being fluent in Latin, French, Greek and German, Italian managed to elude him. His years in Italy were not much help, for classes were conducted entirely in Latin and most students preferred French in their time of leisure. That was another reason why he favored reading the original text, for he quite fancied the idea of concurrently sharpening his Italian and enjoying the refinement of Dante's style.

Halfway across the fifth canto, he stumbled upon a verb he remembered no meaning to. Raising his eyes from the book, he sifted through his memory in search for the answer. As he did so, his eyes accidentally fell upon his wife. Abandoning her knitting, Lady Ursula was engaged in petting Narcissus. The cat was positively beside himself with contentment, purring thunderously as he presented Lady Ursula his belly for scratching. As her fingers slid across the soft fur, a fond smile played upon the woman's lips. Scoffing mentally, Walsingham thought that, do what he may, he himself could never coax such a smile out of her.

Back in the time of their childhood, their families knew each other well. He still remembered her as a little girl as she played with his brother, William. As they grew older, it became obvious that the girl harbored a more significant feeling toward William than a mere friendship. William, however, who had always been a fellow not of this world, had not the ability to recognize her intentions, which frustrated his mother to no end. When Ursula had finally married Richard Worsley, a bright young lieutenant with prospects for promotion, elderly Lady Joyce Walsingham shed ample tears of joy and gave the new Mrs. Richard Worsley her heartfelt blessings.

Being nearly a decade older that Ursula, Sir Francis had not much dealing with her, though he remembered Lady Worsley being quite happy in her marriage. Soon after, when Sir Richard received a commission as the captain of the Isle of Wight, Ursula left the capital along with him. That was the last Sir Francis heard of her, although Lady Joyce continued to receive letters form Ursula until the very time she passed on. Walsingham heard no more, since later on, he was forced to abandon England and seek refuge in France.

When, after the death of Queen Mary, he had at last returned home, for sheer curiosity's sake, he decided to find out what had become of Lady Worsley. In his new position, it was not a hard thing to do. Nor had he to search for long, for her misery was a cause for much conversation in high society. Being an upstanding fellow in every regard, Sir Richard was nonetheless hopeless when it came to finances; quite an error to make, particularly when his health had also left something to be desired. Several months before Walsingham had returned from France, Sir Worsley died, leaving his beloved wife nothing but debts. His creditors knew no mercy and the poor widow, along with two small sons, was due to be left on the street in a month's time.

Having traveled to meet Ursula and finding the rumors to be true, Sir Francis weighed the situation. He was quite a rich man and it was nothing to him to extinguish all of the Worsleys' debts in one stroke of a quill. But who would stop the creditors from coming for more? Those highway robbers would stop at nothing to tighten their money bags, especially when their clients were careless with their finances. Richard Worsley had largely underwritten his debts, thus leaving his family at their mercy indefinitely. Surely, the creditors would have been appeased for a time, but as soon as a receipt for yet another sum would _mysteriously_ see the light of day, the poor woman would have no choice but to pay it off, having no way to prove it to be false.

Walsingham could have just as easily disposed of this aggravation, just as he would have disposed of the first. However, the society also needed to be taken into account. It looked most improper for a widow to receive regular endorsement from an unmarried man. Idle as those talks might have been, they could have easily ruined her.

Having considered all the options, Sir Francis had offered Lady Ursula something that had evaded her in the past: to become Lady Walsingham. Being of no small mind herself, Lady Worsley understood it to be the only favorable escape from the dire state she was in, as well as an opportunity such marriage presented for her children. She had known very little of Francis growing up, but always knew him to be a man of a benevolent, although undisputedly enigmatic nature. Tearful with gratitude, Lady Ursula accepted his proposal.

However, once she had escaped her tribulations, Lady Walsingham had begun to see her new husband in a new light. If she had only married him for love, it could have blinded her to the nature of his duties and the means he chose to accomplish them; love could have told her to accept his ambiguous, intricate character without reproach. Love could have made he ignore the looks of fear that she began to get from even the oldest of friends as soon as she dropped her husband's name.

No, she had married him out of desperation, caring very little to examine his person. Having done that now, she became anxious about the choice she had made. Every new unexplained death of an enemy to the throne, every new plot exposed, and every confession extracted from a person most unlikely to talk, fueled her worries. Although Sir Francis had always treated her with nothing but respect and affection, her fear of him grew, pulling them further apart.

Adding to that, was the untimely tragic death of her sons. After her marriage, it took her but a single trip to the Isle of Wright to move whatever she had left of her household to London. Being a careful woman, she wished to insure personally that none of her precious possessions were mistreated. As she was in the house, running after every vase and chair, John and George, who were nine and seven at the time, had spotted some of their old playmates outside and ran off to play. It was springtime and all the boys were engaged in their chief pastime of the season, racing toy boats and ships across the rapid streams that ran on the streets. No one knew why the boys had chosen the one street right next to the powder magazine to conduct their regatta, or what it was that might have caused the powder to ignite in such a cold, damp season. Nor would finding the answers would make the loss any less painful. The explosion devastated three buildings right next to the ill-fated arsenal and killed near to sixty persons in its proximity, including the two she held most dear…

When informed of their death by a hysterical nurse, Lady Ursula fainted and was taken back to London with great care. There, she lay sick, between life and death for nearly a month. Having been attended to by the best doctors her husband's money could buy, she recovered at last. Her body might have been restored to well-being, but her heart was beyond recovery. She had no more strength to fight the troubled feelings connected with her marriage. Looking anywhere but her husband's face, she faintly requested permission to retire to Hampshire for her health. Giving her one of his characteristic piercing looks, this time tampered with much compassion, Sir Francis gave her the permission to do whatever she thought was best.

Of course Walsingham knew, how could he not, of the way she felt about him. For him, it took no effort at all to read deep within the heart of this honest woman. He also knew she was well aware of his infidelities, although his behavior was somewhat more discreet than that of his brother-in-law. The only reason she was with him on this night, was her sense of duty as a wife and, in some respect, gratitude for understanding her motives and not demanding more than she could give.

On his part, he valued her as a person who never asked any questions and had no fondness for gossip. Lady Ursula never made scenes of jealousy and simply left him be. They were comfortable, yet not happy. But, on the other hand, who ever was?

Walsingham stood up, closing the book shut. The movement forced Ursula to tear her attention from the cat. Approaching his wife, Walsingham laid a hand on her shoulder, sensing a barely discernable flinch. Knowing her, she probably wondered just what else this hand might have touched. He could not hold that against her.

He smiled kindly at her quizzical look.

"Merry Christmas, sweet," Walsingham said kindly, patting Ursula on the shoulder.

"And you," the woman replied quietly.

Kissing her once on the forehead, Walsingham left her to the company of her cat and her knitting.

**~o~O~o~**

Even though the snow had ceased on Christmas morning, the sun still kept out of sight. Dull rectangles of gray light lay on the marble floor as Walsingham walked through the palace.

He had arrived in the early morning, and having made the journey to the Queen's chambers, received news that Her Majesty had not yet risen. Nodding in comprehension, he privately thought this information to be incorrect. He knew the Queen to always rise early, probably even earlier than it was absolutely necessary. She could lay in bed for quite a while without summoning her ladies. A strange thing to do, of course, but where else would this poor woman get a moment of peace; a moment that was hers alone?

She became Queen by necessity, not by choice, placing her youth on the sacrificial fire of the state, not unlike the virgins of old stepped into the ritual flame to appease the heathen gods. This fire took her golden hair, blanched her skin, purged her heart of anything that was not England, but, alas, it could not destroy _her _in full. For if she was truly destroyed, there would be no pain to feel. The ache was there, deep in her eyes, becoming less and less visible as time passed. She was the Queen of England, a sovereign who bore the crown with refinement known to only a few monarchs, but no one had ever asked her if it was truly what she wanted. Only in her bed, as she lay alone, shrouded from the world by her white silk hangings, was Elizabeth Tudor truly her own. Let her. She had earned it.

It was still early, around seven o'clock. The halls were near empty. Several servants crossed his path as he walked towards his chambers. They were already up, attending to their daily duties. A young baker's apprentice, hurrying to the kitchens with a sack of wheat, an old liveried man, cleaning the candlesticks and collecting the candle stubs in his tin, a rosy-cheeked chamber maid with a basket of fresh linens, still crisp from the frost.

As it was so natural for even the best of men, Walsingham looked her over. The simplicity of her dress was amply compensated by the honey of her long hair, escaping from underneath her bonnet. She might have looked demure from the distance, but at the closer look his trained eye immediately recognized her to be an expert coquette. She had arranged her bodice so it displayed her pert breasts in the most appealing fashion, and the neck of her chemise was a little too wide to hide her smooth round shoulders. She looked very sweet, yet a tiny curve of her lips and a steep arch of her carefully-tended brow belied an unmistakably tumultuous temper. Looking up, the maid became aware of his attention. She blushed, and stopping in her tracks, curtsied sweetly before continuing hurriedly on her way.

Knowing not why, for the first time in a week, Sir Francis remembered Victoria. It was odd, for the two women had nothing in common, save for their youth. He had spared not a thought for his fair friend ever since he saw her last. His duties kept him occupied, and to procure the necessary time, he chose to forge a temporary alliance with his insomnia, rather than battle it. He had seen nothing of her either. True to the report he had received of her, she was all but invisible in this huge palace, tending diligently to her duties...

A scraping noise intruded suddenly upon his thoughts. Immediately locating the direction of the disturbance, Walsingham turned his head in its direction. Approaching a window, he immediately recognized the culprit. A robin prowled on the windowsill outside, periodically digging for edibles in the cracks upon the face of the stone.

Sensing the approach of a man, the bird ceased to move, obviously evaluating the situation at hand. The bird's plumage was a mix of brown and gray, save for its face and chest, which were a bright fiery shade of orange; its beady black eyes shining with apprehension. However, the robin deduced quickly that the man could cause it no harm. Giving Sir Francis an unmistakably impudent look, it resumed foraging for breakfast, leaving no crevice unchecked. God only knows what it could find there in the middle of winter. Suddenly, emitting a loud chirp, the bird took flight. Walsingham's eyes followed the robin's orange chest, perfectly vivid against the ubiquitous whiteness of the snow. Making a few circles in the air, the robin landed on one of the trees in the garden.

Like a jewel set in gold, the Palace of Whitehall was set in the middle of a lavish garden that surrounded it with a thick ring. Every bit as magnificent as the palace itself, the garden was a constant source of amazement for whoever stepped foot in it.

In spring, it donned a splendid dress of fragrant flowers and herbs. Trees were heavily in blossom, raining petals on anyone passing by. Exotic birds in large gilded cages right under the open sky, chattered in their own bizarre dialect as they used their sharp beaks and clawed feet to climb up and down the bars. Peacocks, magnificent as Turkish sultans, wandered importantly up and down the alleys with humbly-clad peahens trotting submissively behind. Tiny red squirrels scavenged busily amidst the tree roots, caring very little for all the besotted couples, seeking privacy among the tall shrubs.

When the last of Spring flowers fell, their Summer cousins appeared one by one, arranged neatly on the elaborate flowerbeds. The park drowned in the ocean of green. At night, the alleys were lit by thick scented candles, lanterns, and myriads of fireflies as they danced to an orchestra of thousands of crickets. In summertime, the park rarely remained vacant. Masques, balls and receptions frequently transcended the palace walls, with guests inundating every nook and cranny of this magnificent realm. The former blossoms on the trees and shrubs turned into fruits and berries, waiting obligingly to be picked.

Fall came, generously spilling gold upon the treetops. The air turned crisper in the mornings, filled with spicy smell of damp earth. Still magnificent in its Autumn foliage, the garden became subdued under the renewed siege of rains. When the sun did shine through the clouds, the tired flora cherished its every glimpse, welcoming every bit of warmth before the coming of winter.

Now, the garden slumbered. A thick white mantle lay over the quaint little benches, the meticulously kept lawns, and the enormous hedge maze that took up a good quarter of the garden. The basins of marble fountains and ponds stood still under the cover of ice. Such was the silence pervading the lands, that when an occasional bird landed on a tree branch, the sound of falling snow carried for yards and yards around.

Yes, Walsingham thought, it was enchanting. It might have even been beautiful, were it not for its location. It was still the Royal Court, the place where every tree had ears (oh, he had seen to that!), every flower could turn into a poisonous nightshade at will, and a woman, who kissed a man so passionately at one moment, could stick him with a pin dipped in poison. What others took to be the residence of Pomona, for him was the house of Circe, a honey-worded sorceress, under whose roof no man could ever feel truly safe…

His thoughts were interrupted yet again by a burst of laughter so loud, it came drifting though a sheet of solid glass in a tightly shut window. It was so silvery and blithe, it could belong to none other than a child. Craning his head slightly, he saw a little girl waddling through the deep snow. She must have been no older than seven. Her cheeks were as round as apples, reddened by the frost. Her long, tightly curling hair bounced on her shoulders. She laughed again as she bent down and, filling both her hands full of snow, threw it over her head. She danced happily as the snow fell upon her. She was a true cherub and her appearance could not be spoiled by her more than humble attire.

Another voice came from the distance, sounding increasingly familiar by the minute. To his surprise, Walsingham saw none other than Victoria, making her way towards the girl. She was easy to recognize by the long red braid flowing like a stream of molten copper down the back of her brown cloak. The child squealed in delight and made a run for it. Holding her skirts with one hand and something dark clamped in the other, Victoria chased after the girl.

It was easier said than done. Light on her feet as wild hare, the golden-locked angel was a hard game to capture. As though truly possessing wings, she dashed to and fro, giggling all the while. For some time, Victoria had not much luck. Finally, throwing all caution to the wind, she lunged at the girl as she dashed by yet again, and both fell onto the snow, laughing.

Still ringing with mirth, Victoria climbed to her feet, pulling the girl along. She patted the child down thoroughly, cleaning her of snow. Placing a hat she had brought along atop the girl's golden curls, Victoria raised her forefinger in a somewhat scolding manner, evidently instructing the girl to keep it on.

The girl burst out in laughter once more, but Victoria put her index finger to her lips, requesting silence. Extracting a small pouch from underneath her cloak, she emptied its contents into the girl's palm. The child held it closely to her body at first, but Victoria corrected her, pulling on her arm encouragingly to outstretch it completely. After doing so, the two became still and quiet.

A few minutes passed without change. Walsingham, somewhat intrigued by the peculiarity of the situation, was wondering what they were waiting for. Just then he saw a familiar bright orange spot dash through the air. His new acquaintance, the mischievous robin, appearing from out of nowhere, made a few circles in the air before landing neatly on the little girl's palm. The child seemed beside herself with glee, but Victoria raised a finger again, evidently warning her to stay still.

However, the bird must have been braver than they thought. Having eaten his share, the robin soared into the air once more, to land right on Victoria's shoulder. The woman smiled, carefully stroking the bird's brown head with her finger. All the while, she spoke to the girl, who listened to her with rapt attention.

Just as the robin, deciding to help itself to seconds, landed again on the girl's palm, there was yet another diversion in the form of two small boys, who ran towards them, cheering. The bird immediately took flight, and the small girl rounded furiously on the boys. Walsingham scoffed as he heard her raise her voice and call them a certain name for interfering with her fun. Victoria shook her head with a smile.

At first, it seemed that she genuinely tried to achieve peace, but it all revealed itself to be nothing but trick, when she bent down abruptly, grabbing handfuls of snow, and throwing the snowball at one of the boys. Her target yelped in surprise, but his comrade retaliated immediately, the snowball hitting Victoria squarely in the chest.

The mayhem had ensued immediately. Both sides were at war. More and more children, there must have been fifteen in all, came running out of nowhere. They were of different ages, from about five to fifteen, and different looks, yet all were dressed in darned, worn attire. Newcomers quickly joined one or the other side, and the air was soon thick with laughter and snowballs.

Slowly but surely, Victoria's side lost its fighters, as they joined the opposite side. Pretty soon it was only her and the golden-haired girl defending against the largely outnumbering forces.

Finally realizing the resistance to be futile, Victoria grabbed the girl by the hand and they both fled the battlefield, the other children hot on their heels. The quarry picked up the pace, turning the corner and disappearing down one of the side alleys. Laughing and elbowing each other out of the way, the pursuers followed suit.

Smiling in spite of himself, Walsingham left the window and continued on his way.

**~o~O~o~**

Thrown across a freshly written letter, the yellowish grains of sand quickly dried the ink. Shaking the parchment clean, Walsingham promptly folded and sealed it with a wine colored wax. Before the wax hardened, Walsingham took out a seal that hung on a long golden chain under his doublet and impressed it up upon the crimson splotch. Gathering several documents across his desk, he compiled them into a neat stack, slipping the letter in the middle. Having finished, he rang his bell once.

As though having the ability to walk through solid walls, Jerome appeared momentarily by his side.

"To Sir Robert, in his own hands," Sir Francis ordered shortly. The lad bowed, tucking the documents safely under his arm, and headed for the door.

"One more thing," Walsingham said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "on your way back, go to the servants' quarters, third corridor from the fountain, fifteenth door on the left."

Jerome tilted his head, evidently wondering what business his master could possibly have with anyone residing in the south corridors.

"You remember Lady Victoria York, I trust?" Sir Francis continued.

Jerome nodded.

"Tell her that I wish to see her tonight. Ten o'clock," Walsingham said. "Understood?"

Jerome nodded again.

"You may go," Walsingham dismissed him.

The youth bowed once more and left.

Throwing his dark robes across the back of a tall chair, Walsingham settled in an armchair by the fire. Unfastening a few toggles of his doublet and loosening the neck of his shirt, he stole a glance at the clock. The longer arm of the two had left its mate and was now approaching the five minute marker. His guest had yet to show herself. Somewhere deep inside, he felt the tiniest of twinges as his annoyance made its presence known. Thankfully, he was not left waiting much longer, for that very moment he heard the familiar rustling of silk.

"I am not accustomed to being kept waiting, Lady Victoria. I trust you have a reason to be late," Walsingham said as Victoria bowed to him upon her entrance. "At five to eleven, this reason had better be profound."

He saw the woman pale slightly as she perceived the stern notes in his tone.

"I know it pleases Your Grace when I come on time. However, I had an impression that Your Grace would be even more pleased if I were to be late," she replied, bowing once again. "Please forgive me if I was mistaken."

Disarmed completely by such a perceptive answer, Sir Francis gifted Victoria with his most charming smile.

"You made no mistake," he said, motioning her to sit down in an armchair opposite to him. Still somewhat nervous, the woman took her seat.

"Before I exact my fee," he smiled again, "a question."

Victoria looked at him attentively.

"Have you managed to escape?" Walsingham asked.

She gave him a long bewildered look, before her eyes opened wide as she arrived at the meaning of his question.

"We broke away from them in a labyrinth," she replied quietly, reddening. "There is an opening in one of the walls."

"I must say I am much impressed by your eminence, my Lady," Sir Francis continued.

The red on Victoria's cheeks flared brighter still.

"I know not what you mean, my Lord," she whispered. "I am naught but a humble seamstress –"

"_Naught but a humble seamstress _indeed," Walsingham cocked his eyebrow in an amused fashion. "Just this afternoon I saw you surrounded by no less than fifteen persons, the very making of your own court."

"Have you been watching us?" Victoria asked.

"Such a commotion was hard to miss," Sir Francis said. "Who are those children?"

"Sons and daughters of the palace servants," Victoria replied. "Do forgive us, my Lord. It is ever so hard for children to remain quiet, especially when they are so terribly exited."

"What was the reason for such excitement?" Walsingham inquired.

"Presents, my Lord," Victoria said. "I had told them Father Christmas missed a step on the roof and dropped the entire sack-full of them into my chimney by mishap."

Walsingham chortled.

"Do they believe it?" he asked with a smile.

"The younger children do," Victoria replied, "the elder ones know better by now; still, it stops them not from being happy about presents."

"So happy, in fact, they thanked you by flinging snowballs at your person?" Sir Francis inquired jokingly.

"They are but children, my Lord," Victoria replied fondly. "Would I begrudge them wanting to play? It is naught but a game. They are indeed very precious."

"What do you give them?" Walsingham asked next.

"Beads, yarn, pieces of fabric for the girls," Victoria said. "A lot of them are quite gifted for their age and welcome every opportunity to practice their craft. I give the boys gloves, neck scarves, sometimes toys. I know where all such things could be purchased for a good price. I also make sure to supply each of their good mothers with a threefarthing. Every family would do well with a few extra treats for Christmas dinner."

"Why do you do it?" Sir Francis demanded quietly, his eyes raptly on hers.

Victoria lowered her gaze.

"It is Christmas, my Lord," she replied with a shrug. "They are children and it is every child's God-given right to receive presents and be merry on this blessed day. They are most deserving little angels, for as soon as they are old enough, they begin to help their parents year round. They work, clean, sew, cook, watch after their younger brother and sisters. They barely have time to be children themselves, yet they never complain. It makes me very happy to see the smiles on their faces as they unwrap their gifts. Happiness is precious, and what I give them is a truly small price indeed for what I get in return."

Yes, Walsingham thought, and no. The reason lay much deeper, yet it was very simple. Those were not just gifts, but amends to her ruined childhood. She was torn from this world of fairytales in the most tender of ages and thrown bodily into the maelstrom of human wickedness. Having known little kindness growing up, she now devoted her attention, as well as her severely limited means, to guarding their innocence. Perhaps, as she ran and laughed in their midst, she could, a least for a short time, feel as a child again. In essence, that is what she still was…

But how could a child look at him in the way she did now? He sat in his armchair, with his legs outstretched. The open collar of his shirt exposed his slender, white neck. It was incredible that so little skin drew in her attention with such power. Deep in her eyes flickered the two sparks of forbidden fire. Shielded by both respect and propriety, they were very faint, yet they were unmistakably there, unable to evade his knowing gaze. Even a single touch of such an expert debauchee as himself was enough to shake the ground beneath the stoutest of virtues and she had shared his bed for no less than three nights. She was already gone, far gone.

"How very charitable of you, my Lady," Walsingham said, nodding. "May I ask, what have you brought me?"

"My Lord?" Victoria looked at him, her brow knitting with worry.

"'Tis quite plain that you have taken it upon yourself to reward the worthy," Sir Francis said. "Am I not worthy of a gift in your eyes? It is true that those children have it upon their shoulders to care for the household. My responsibilities are of a somewhat different nature, yet would you not find them important? Have I not done enough to earn a threefarthing from you this Christmas?" Walsingham asked.

At that, poor Victoria looked at a complete loss. She knew full well that she had nothing of value to offer him. Being able to do nothing more, she looked up helplessly at Walsingham. This beseeching look amused him, so he relented. For just a single moment, his eyes flashed as he looked at her. The flickering of those two icy embers told her just what he desired for his gift. He could clearly see her cheeks flare in the firelight as his message was received.

A small smile appeared on her lips as she stood up and took a few steps towards his chair.

"It appears that I have been wrong," Sir Francis said, "and you indeed have something to offer me?"

The woman smiled again before settling on his lap. Gently, she cradled his head in her hands and kissed him.

"No, my Lord," she said, pulling back. "I believe you are not accustomed in dealing with something as small as a threefarthing. I think it would be an insult to offer you a gift of so little a value."

As she spoke, her fingers unlaced her bodice.

"It is true," Walsingham murmured, "the smallest coin I ever held was a half crown."

"I do not have that much," Victoria said, her fingers still hard at work. When the bodice was unlaced, she threw it off. Taking his hand, she adorned his palm and fingertips with a few tender kisses, before placing it on her breast, perfectly visible through a thin chemise.

"You are mistaken, child," Walsingham said slowly, his slender fingers contracting around the soft mound. "You have much more than you realize."

"How so?" Victoria whispered as his palm kneaded her flesh gently.

"A woman, who is as young and pure as you," Walsingham said, now putting both of his hands to the task, "a woman who had only been with one other man, is quite a rarity at court. Your value is much higher than you think."

A small smile appeared on Victoria's lips.

"As I have told you, Your Grace," she said, "Whatever I have to give is yours for the taking. _I never go back on my word_**."**

Walsingham chuckled at such innocent, yet clever bit of flirtation.

"You have a good memory, my girl," he said, kissing her neck. The smell of lavender was particularly strong there, just behind her ear.

"I found it to be more of a curse than a blessing, my Lord," Victoria said, her body trembling at his touch. Her fingers found their way into his hair, combing gently through the curling tresses, "for I still remember many things that should be long forgotten."

Walsingham understood.

"You must learn how to forget," he said seriously, straightening up, "the things you wish not to remember. It is something you must learn for yourself. This will make your gift easier to live with."

"Thank you, my Lord," Victoria smiled. Was it a trick of vision in a flickering light or was her smile much too understanding? Truly, Walsingham thought, this girl was innocent, but by no means dull.

His eyes followed her hands as they reached for his chest to open his doublet completely. Once the last toggle was undone, Victoria gently pried the two halves apart. Slowly she ran her palms up his chest, clad into a finest batiste cloth.

"I wonder," Sir Francis asked teasingly, "do you admire the shirt or the man in it?"

Victoria smiled.

"Both, my Lord," she said. "To admire a man one has to be a woman –"

"In some cases, a man," Walsingham cut in, tilting his head.

Victoria giggled.

"Like the Earl of Kent?" she asked, grinning broadly.

"Precisely," Walsingham replied, his eyebrows twitching in a mischievous manner.

"And to appreciate a rare cloth, one has to be a seamstress," Victoria continued. "A woman, who is also a seamstress, should count herself exceptionally lucky when she encounters these two indulgences combined."

Walsingham laughed.

"Well said, my child," he complemented, wrapping his arms around her scantly clad shoulders and bringing her closer. Placing his elegant palm on the back of her head, he pulled her into a kiss. His other hand slid under her chemise, pulling it further down her body. Sir Francis could feel her breath quicken as he caressed her now bare breast. He could almost see the wave of longing rising within her.

She was still so young, at that very age when, once aroused, the desire rules the body and soul like storm at sea rules a stranded ship. An emotion so powerful, it left no place for anything else. She desired him, it was plain and simple.

"Come," he whispered. "I think the time is right for me to unwrap my present."

**~o~O~o~**

A hand, trembling with desperate bliss, contracted convulsively, grasping at a bed sheet… A moan escaped her throat as Walsingham's lips traveled up her neck at the end of yet another thrust. Through the shimmering veil of wanton heat, Victoria could feel him roll one of her nipples in his dexterous practiced fingers.

Walsingham's face soared just above hers, his piercing eyes of steel blue fixed on her own. Those eyes, seemingly so cold, consumed her whole being in their blue flame. Like an alchemist's fire, it burned her until the fabric of her very person came apart, revealing the elements she never knew were there.

"P-please," the woman begged in shaking whisper, "I beg of you…O-oh! Mercy, m-mercy!"

"Unless I am much mistaken, my Lady," Walsingham replied, observing the way she twisted fistfuls of linen in her hands "this gift is mine to do whatever I will, is it not?"

"Y-yes, but…" Victoria started. She could barely draw breath for he, once more, brought her to the edge, but allowed not to plunge over it.

"Thus," Sir Francis continued, "mercy shall be given to you whenever I see fit."

"Oh, Gracious Lord!" Victoria whispered unsteadily. Her skin shone with sweat, damp locks of hair scattered over her forehead and temples.

He waited for a while to deliver another stroke. When pulling on the sheet became no longer sufficient, her hands clutched onto his back. If her nails were long, her fingers would have left welts on his skin. She was so close, yet he made certain her orgasm slipped away from her yet again.

She writhed in his arms, her every breath accompanied by a quiet moan. When he leaned in to kiss her, she captured his lips with the vigor a person dying of thirst welcomes a goblet of water.

"Please," she mouthed between kisses, "p-please…"

She had the most wonderful thighs. Smooth and firm on the outside, primed for caress, and on the inside – silken and rather soft, wrapped most comfortably around his waist.

No, such a woman was to be enjoyed slowly, mercy be damned. If she was gracious enough to offer herself to him, she must be able to deal with the consequences.

With a tiny smile, he sealed her lips with an umpteenth kiss, drowning yet another moan…

**~o~O~o~**

As the hour grew later, the snow had started to fall anew. The air was soon thick with legions of snowflakes as they converged once more upon London. The wind was all but absent, and they fell straight down in great multitude.

The Christmas Day had ended. Walsingham lay in bed, his head propped on the elbow as he observed Victoria sleeping next to him. She tired easily, as did any person who lacked experience in the bedchamber. He toyed with her mercilessly and when that long denied moment had dawned, the sensation beset her completely; when it ceased, she became near unconscious, falling fast asleep in his arms.

Sir Francis lay deep in thought, with his other arm draped possessively around her hip. Present, she called it. Quite a fetching present she made, he thought to himself. It took a great intelligence that he possessed, along with his insight, to know the full value of what he had been given.

Her station was much beyond his, yet she chanced to offer herself to him. Recklessness, born in the void of hope, substituted for bravery that she so evidently lacked in life. By the trick of Providence, he, Sir Francis Walsingham, the spymaster of Queen Elizabeth and one of the most dangerous men of this time, was the only man in her life who showed her any amount of kindness or consideration. It pulled her to him, with even a greater force than his skill, and kept her coming back, perhaps against her better judgment.

As soon as she set foot in his bedchamber, she surrendered all control to him. He was too practiced in the art of seduction and had too great a knowledge of female physique to be refused, and she was too young, too inexperienced and too responsive to his touch to refuse him. She yielded her person to him without looking back, for no hope awaited her, and let the flame of passion ravage her whole.

It has been quite a long time, almost an eternity, since Walsingham knew such passion. His desire had long since become just another instrument, a tool of the trade. He held this beast on a tight rein, rousing or calming it at will. His charm was but a weapon, the deadliest he held, for its ability to lure the victim deeper than any other enticement, deep within his web where the end awaited. He had never yet failed to strike his target. He was not afraid to slay even those of royal blood, if he deemed them dangerous for his Queen's rule.

However, when such measures were uncalled for, the act itself changed its purpose, used it for a singular reason of attaining release that helped his body to calm. It was called upon by necessity, not by choice. His dignity and pride would not allow him to make it something more in the arms of a woman who smelled of wine and another man's perfume.

With such a woman, when the heat of passion crested, the glamor melted away, ceasing to shield the most unappealing reality: skin, marked with disease and age, hair, thin and brittle due to the constant coloring, and embrace, driven by primitive self-serving desire to enjoy and advance.

She, who now slept by his side, was rather different. Victoria was a creature of youth, unspoiled by tricks of beauty or unkindness of nature. Her spirit matched her body in fairness. She moved, breathed and spoke like no woman he met at court. Moreover, she had pleased him, and no woman had done so in a long time. It would be a waste to refuse something as fine. Although he had spent his life among riches, Sir Francis was by no means wasteful.

However, it was not without risk. Walsingham knew her type well. Simple and quiet, yet such women were capable of forming an uncommonly strong loving attachment in exchange for mere benevolence. Difficult as it was for women to separate their heart from carnal delight, it was particularly hard for the women of her kind. As pleasant as her found her company at present, the time would come when his interest in her would cease. Observing Victoria, as she breathed calmly in her sleep, he realized, as clear as day, that he would _have_ to break her heart. Not now, and not a month from now, but in due time. Even considering all this, he still maintained the resolve to make his proposition.

It was, without a doubt, a self-seeking action, yet for him such actions were scarce. His door and his coin purse were always open for anyone with a good heart and a threadbare doublet. Artists, playwrights, merchants or even a few nobles, down on their luck, knew they would always find aid in his house, provided that the fear of his person allowed them to cross the threshold. His thoughts and actions were a property of the state, for they were bent on serving England and its Queen. Even his marriage was an act of charity. There was never a reason or chance to be selfish, not until now. For the sake of his own well-being, he decided not to pass it by.

Above and beyond, he chuckled to himself, his life was devoted to serving his country. In order to serve England at his best, his body had to be maintained. If she were to serve his body, by proxy she was serving England as well. What nobler fate was there?

So it was decided, then…

He bent down, his nose gently rubbing against the skin of her breast as he captured the silky nipple in his mouth. As he trailed a line of slow kisses up her body, he felt her stir.

"My Lady," he greeted her, looking up.

"Your Grace," she replied, still somewhat drowsily. Her hand found its way into his hair once more. She seemed to have taken quite a fancy to playing with his curls.

"I must tell you that I have found your present highly enjoyable," Walsingham said. "It was, perhaps, one of the best presents I have ever received."

Victoria smiled, blushing.

"Your Grace does me a great honor," she spoke softly.

"I find your style most agreeable," Walsingham continued with a thin smile, "yet undeniably somewhat raw."

The girl looked up at him, her brows knitting in a puzzled fashion. Her mirth faded as she tried to fathom the meaning of his words.

"May I hope," Victoria said finally, "that Your Grace would be so kind as to point out how I can remedy my imperfections?"

"I do not believe so," Sir Francis replied. "Words are hardly suitable for this task. In matter such as this, I find but two things to be of invaluable nature: experience, my dear, as well as guidance of an apt teacher."

Victoria was still surveying him perplexedly.

"I see much promise in you, child," Walsingham said, "and therefore I offer you my tutelage."

Lady York's eyes rounded as she finally understood what he was getting at.

"What say you?" Walsingham asked quietly. His knee slipped in between her legs, gently caressing the tender skin of her inner thighs.

He waited as her eyes studied his face.

"One would be a fool to refuse such an offer, my Lord," Victoria said after momentary silence. "I accept it, hoping that someday I shall prove worthy of the trust you put im me."

"One condition applies," Walsingham continued. "I would find it most intolerable should my pupil choose to seek knowledge from someone other than me. Am I understood?"

Despite of the joking way this conversation unfolded, his eyes hardened as he uttered this warning to make it as plain as possible.

"You may rest assured, My Lord," Victoria said, stroking his cheek soothingly. "From what I have seen of my teacher, a lifetime would not be enough to absorb all the knowledge he possesses. Why would I seek instruction elsewhere?"

"You answer does you credit," Walsingham said. The blue of his eyes changed again, from piercing ice to the soothing water. "It shows me that I made no mistake in choosing my student. Now…"

His arm wrapped around her waist as he pulled her closer.

"Naturally," he said quietly, his hand sliding lower to cup her backside, "before I can begin my instruction, I shall appraise your performance to take note of the areas in need of improvement."

"Naturally," Victoria smiled.

Abruptly, he rolled the woman to her back, pinning her under him.

"Then, by your leave," Walsingham said, "I shall conduct my first lesson."

**~o~**


	7. Chapter 7

**~o~**

A chill January morning dawned upon the city of London. The air was bitterly cold, leaving the streets nearly deserted. The city folk kept to the warmth of their homes and ventured outside only by absolute necessity. The edge of the pearly horizon was rapidly flooding with crimson light, declaring that the sun was to rise at any minute.

Lord Walsingham stood in front of a splendid tall mirror that occupied one of the corners in his bedchamber. He was already fully dressed, and all that was left was a matter of arranging his robes. A dark voluminous garment, consisting of several layers of heavy ornate silk, it undoubtedly amplified the striking air of his persona.

Sir Francis smiled lightly as he felt hands running down his shoulders and back, straightening out the folds. Reflected in the mirror, he could see Victoria stand on her tiptoes as to get a better view of his left shoulder. She wore his burgundy dressing gown over her bare body, her long hair flowing loose about her figure. Since her duties required her presence at much later time, she opted to help Walsingham dress before doing so herself.

"I must say, my dear, you wear it well," Sir Francis said as she came around to face him.

Victoria's cheeks flared to match the color of sun rising outside. Coyly, she tried to close the robe around her.

"Come now, my Lady," Walsingham said, his smile widening, "I shall have none of that."

He reached out and parted the robe anew, uncovering much more flesh this time around.

"Why is it that you blush?" he continued, his eyes roaming leisurely over her exposed body. "You are young and quite beautiful. I see no reason to be bashful. Youth is fleeting, my child. Embrace it and make use of the gifts it offers."

"Another lesson, my Lord?" Victoria asked, looking up.

Walsingham gave her another look.

"Yes," he said slowly, "why not?"

She was terribly good at it, learning these new lessons. Three weeks had passed since he had taken Victoria under his wing, and he had not once regretted it. So far, she had proved herself an excellent pupil, picking up quickly on the things that pleased him most.

Walsingham had rarely met such a submissive and patient creature. Being a mistress to His Grace also meant conforming unconditionally to His Grace's habits and appetites, which would prove not an easy task for most. Lady York was to come whenever she was summoned, and to leave without question when dismissed. At times, Walsingham would not call upon her for days, or, when circumstances changed, he would send for her three or four times a day. Even their meetings differed; if he so desired, he could toy with her for hours, or if he chose, it was over in a quarter of an hour, after which he simply fell asleep, without so much as a word to her.

Sir Francis did as he pleased, but also, from a corner of his eye, he noted her demeanor. His craft was based upon the keenest knowledge of human nature and his sharp talent for observation. Having sharpened his skills for countless years, applying them regularly had become his very nature. In Victoria's case, he observed her for mere curiosity's sake. Walsingham watched her carefully for any sign of commonplace female frailties, such as petulance or jealousy, or even things as simple as tetchiness.

So far, though, he had to go without, for as unusual as it was, she had exhibited none. Every time, Victoria would gratefully accept whatever he had in store for her. In no way had she ever uttered even a single word to establish her terms. Therefore, no matter what disposition he was in, Sir Francis always made sure he spared her an affectionate kiss or a fond touch.

"Forgive me, my Lord," Victoria said, "I simply can not help it. From the very childhood, every woman is taught that the nakedness of her body is only hers to see."

"That is most admirable," Walsingham replied, "for a wife of a chaplain. In my bedchamber it will do you no good."

"Is there a remedy that you know of?" Victoria asked, gazing hopefully up at him. It was clear that pleasing him had become a priority over the rules of conventional propriety.

"Yes, I know just the thing," Walsingham said, smiling crookedly his yet another victory over her virtue.

"What would you have me do, my Lord?" Victoria inquired.

"I would have you stand before me," Sir Francis said, stroking her cheek with the back of his palm, "slowly removing each and every garment from your body; I would have you walk or dance before me with not a stitch on your person, and I would have you enjoy every moment of it, with not a tinge of blush upon your cheeks."

He looked into Victoria's eyes. They were open wide in shock.

"All in good time, my girl," he added to ease her worry.

With this, Walsingham slipped his hands underneath the robe and pulled her closer. Moving the robe off her right shoulder, he trailed a row of kisses all the way up to her lips, from time to time nipping slightly at the soft skin. Yes, Victoria still blushed at her nakedness before him, but how she enjoyed whatever attention he chose to lavish upon her! Her lips opened readily as he captured them in a crowning, deep kiss.

Even this simple girl's company required compensation. He administered her payment in the only type of currency he knew her to desire, namely affection. It was but a simple matter for him, for he could stage scenes of divine passion for the sake of even those who he greatly despised, if his duties so required. While his eyes burned with desire, his body primed and ready to awe, his heart and his head remained forever cool, heedful of the goal at hand.

It was even somewhat pleasant for him to splurge his affection upon someone as in need of it as his young mistress. Walsingham knew that his every kiss, gesture, or simple word of praise would not go overlooked. His kindness was the only charity she required, and Sir Francis was never a man to deny a damsel in need. In the end, it all had little meaning, for whatever emotions he let loose on the surface, they never troubled his heart, which was an impregnable stronghold, a keep more guarded than The Tower itself.

"Go," he ordered gently, pulling away from her.

"Will Your Grace require my presence tonight?" Victoria asked. She was still holding onto his hand, showing a very timid, humble unwillingness to let go of him.

Walsingham thought for a minute.

"No, not tonight," he replied. "I have much to be getting on with."

He smiled kindly upon seeing Victoria visibly upset at such turn of events.

"Tomorrow," he told her, "we shall continue with our lessons. I see much improvement in you, yet your sufferance still leaves something to be desired."

"Do you expect it would take much time to overcome?" Victoria asked, already quite at ease with his critical notations.

Walsingham's steely eyes sparked.

"Much, much time indeed," he replied quietly.

With a last kiss that sent quivers down Victoria's spine, he was gone.

**~o~O~o~**

The sun that rose shortly after brought no warmth. As Walsingham walked through the corridors, the stone walls radiated an icy chill. Roaring fires that were lit in the huge grates of all the big halls of assembly, had barely the strength to warm the rooms themselves, what to speak of the halls that connected them.

Even in such hard times, ladies and gentlemen of the court would not succumb to despair. Taking the frost as an opportunity, they used it to flaunt their new fashions. The gentlemen wore splendid cloaks in order to keep warm; gesturing proudly to the fur that lined them, they boasted their hunting conquests. The ladies gossiped in small groups here and there, hiding their delicate, gem-covered hands in fox or mink stoles.

Among such uplifted moods, the spymaster alone looked out of place. He strode brusquely through the palace, his usual dark robes setting him spectacularly apart from the colorful crowd.

Moths, he thought in disgust, moths, not men. Just like moths that filled the air on midsummer's eve, devoting their short age to frivolous, silly pastimes and flapping their wings all day long, the courtiers cared very little for any problem that was any manner of profound. They neither thought nor cared for what the next day would bring, simply deriving satisfaction from having dressed better than their neighbor or having had more luck in a game of cards. Now, for moths such attitude was quite natural, for no great intelligence could possible fit into their minute heads; yet for men, such squandering of human life was unforgivable.

Shaking his head surreptitiously, Walsingham proceeded towards the Queen's chambers.

**~o~O~o~**

A daring ray of sunshine that fell on top of the Queen's head, frolicked among the jewels of her headdress. Rubies and emeralds shimmered fiery red and brilliant green atop the Queen's bright-red wig. A magnificent peacock quill, tall enough to tickle the royal cheek, swayed elegantly back and forth as Her Majesty signed her name on yet another document. A stack of six or seven parchments, already initialed, lay on the table.

Forcefully dotting the "_E.R._" on the parchment, Elizabeth I looked up at her spymaster, who stood patiently by her side, holding one last scroll in his hands.

"Will that be all, Sir Francis?" the Queen asked. The question bore an unmistakable air of contemptuousness, for she could see perfectly well that he was not yet done. She reclined in her seat, propping her head on her arm, looking visibly bored. Her quill, which matched perfectly with the blue sapphire silk of her gown, idly stroked her willowy tender neck.

Walsingham gave her a covertly disapproving look, the sort of look a lazy pupil would get from a disgruntled schoolmaster. Elizabeth was, no doubt, turning into a fine monarch, yet she felt no need to think through every little detail, not thus far. Things she deemed irrelevant quickly lost her attention.

"You are yet to address the concerns," Walsingham said firmly, "regarding Mary of Scotts, Majesty."

Elizabeth looked up, her eyes blazing.

"I have addressed them, sir," she said to him, irritation obvious in her tone, "and I have dismissed them."

"May I express my opinion, Madam?" Walsingham asked carefully.

"Speak," Elizabeth said abruptly, straightening defiantly in her seat.

"I think that perhaps your dismissal of them was premature," Walsingham pointed out brazenly. "In this case, we are not dealing with rumors or hearsay. My information is based on facts alone, and they are, alas, not in our favor. It would be foolish to ignore them."

"Are you calling me a fool, sir?" the Queen asked dangerously, her delicate palms balling into fists upon the gilded armrests of her chair. The quill she still held in her hand, broke in her grip.

"I would not dare to insult my Queen." Walsingham bowed as Elizabeth tossed the quill aside. "However, it is my business to guard Your Majesty against mistakes that can later cost you your throne, or even your life."

Having said that, Walsingham bowed even lower. Without seeing her face, he knew that at this very moment she was staring daggers at him, perhaps deliberating whether the rack or the iron maiden would be more suitable to punish him for his daring. As much as she sometimes detested his frank, unflattering way of dispensing advice, she did appreciate that he alone spoke his mind, without adding even an ounce of flattery. Yet, this appreciation frequently took a secondary place to her volatile Tudor temper, her anger rearing at his frankness. Often, he paid for speaking the truth by enduring a hearty slap of her royal hand or even a slipper that, despite her angered state, was thrown in his direction with surprisingly good aim. Sir Francis had learned to tolerate this, for the only way to advise the young Monarch was to bear the wave of her rage as it crested, and then find his way to reach the Queen just as she came down from the heights of her fury.

"She is my relative," Elizabeth spat, "a queen of royal blood and you would have me lay her a trap! Why, you will be asking me to place her into the Tower next!"

"In due time, if it is necessary," Walsingham replied with a tiny nod.

The Queen scoffed, her eyes blazing.

"You, sir, have no respect for royalty," she spat. "You torment me constantly with your irksome sermons, you have been after the very blood of my cousin Mary from the very time you first opened your mouth. I am not surprised, though," she continued somewhat venomously, "for you have once soiled your hands with royal blood and have not thought much of it."

A lesser man would have reddened at the upsurge of exasperation that took place within Walsingham. To have done that meant to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she had gotten a rise out of him, something she labored at relentlessly, and he would never allow that.

"If you permit me, Madam," Walsingham spoke at last, "I would like to remind Your Majesty that familial ties mean very little for princes. As strong as the blood ties are, the desire to rule is stronger still. The kind of respect you mean to show may cost you your crown. Do not forget, should Mary ascend to rule, England would be plunged into a religious war. The fires would burn once more, and thousands of your good people would suffer. So what is the wellbeing of one person, even a royal one, compared to the stability of an entire country, entrusted to you?"

Elizabeth gazed at him as though charmed. As he spoke, Walsingham's words gathered momentum, and what started as unemotional advice, culminated in this sentence, spoken with great passion. Always tactful and collected, the spymaster rarely let his emotions show.

"I ask of you, Majesty," Walsingham continued, "to consider the situation carefully. It had come to my attention that many Scottish Lords are unhappy with Queen Mary's union with James Hepburn, presently the 4th Earl of Bothwell. A single provocation will be enough to instigate a rebellion against her, which can lead to her imprisonment. Your hands shall remain clean, for the Lords would be the ones bestowing judgment. Be mindful, if one day Mary chooses to try and claim England, I can give you my personal assurance that many Catholics shall flock to her banner. What say you to that, Madam?"

He knew he had already made his argument. He also knew that she had nothing to reply, for nothing could topple an argument that convincing. However, she was both a woman and a Queen; it was possible to convince her, yet it was impossible to make her admit that she had been convinced.

"We shall think on it, Sir Francis," Elizabeth said, reclining back in her chair and adapting a leisurely look once more. Raising her hands, she clapped trice. "Kat!" she called. Lady Kat Ashley appeared promptly in the doorway and bowed to the Queen.

"If you please, Walsingham, now leave my presence," Elizabeth smiled. She had evidently invited a third party for the mere purpose of witnessing her treatment of him. "I must confess, I have had quite enough of you."

Sir Francis raised his eyebrows.

"As Your Majesty wishes," he said, bowing elegantly. He was irked, although he did not let it show. "We shall think on it" was the type of answer he could not question, yet he knew well enough it meant that things would remain as they were.

Walsingham turned around and left.

"Those Italian fabrics," he heard Elizabeth order, "I wish to see them."

**~o~O~o~**

Rustling, a pile of parchments tumbled off the desk, scattering documents over the stone floor. The movement of air, created by the fall, made the candle flame flicker. Walsingham let it pass unnoticed, absorbed in his reading. For the umpteenth time, he perused every document, every scrap of paper he had ever collected on the case, for even a single sentence might help tip the scale in his favor.

He knew that Mary desired to be more than a Queen of Scotland. He also knew that this desire would be coveted strongly by her ambitious new husband. If something was not done soon, this double aspiration might prove dangerous. Although they wed in Protestant manner, causing an uproar among the Catholic nobility of Scotland, Mary was still a great deal more Catholic than Elizabeth. Endorsed by Rome, as well as Spain, who never shied away from meddling in English affairs, Mary could prove a much more serious adversary than Elizabeth realized.

There was only one hope. An ambition that strong could not remain hidden. There had to be some record, some evidence of it among all the letters and reports he ever received, something he could present to the Queen to finally make his warning concrete. Even a single sentence would be enough. Yet, so far, he had found nothing…

Abandoning his search, Sir Francis rose from his seat. Pacing brusquely in his study, he let his thoughts run free. Nothing was definite, however in politics the slightest of delays could prove fatal. He needed to act, yet his hands were tied by the Queen's indecisiveness. His agents in Scotland were ready and waiting. The coded letters with detailed instructions, addressed to them, were already written and sealed. Yet, without the royal permission, he could not proceed.

This enforced idleness agitated him immensely. Above all, he considered the absence of tangible evidence to be his personal failure. For anyone else it might have been easier, but for this man, who had never failed, it was sheer torture. There must be something, he thought, something that might change his luck, something he had not seen or had forgotten he had seen.

Despite the study being barely warm enough, his head was burning. Walsingham strode toward the window and threw it open. Blissfully closing his eyes, he let the crisp, fresh wind wash over him. Throwing his doublet open, he unfastened the top of his shirt, letting the cool air soothe his chest.

Granting himself a moment's rest, he leaned against the windowsill, observing the falling snow dancing in the night air. Below, he could hear the clinking of armor, coughing and hushed voices, as guards cursed the bitter cold. The smell of the mead they evidently used to ward off the frost, wafted through the air.

The deep, clear voice of the bell upon the clock tower cut through the night. Drowning out all the other sounds, the bell rang repeatedly, gravely counting to twelve. After the last stroke fell, the silence continued to ring. The snow settled quietly on the windowsill. Midnight, and still he had nothing…

Walsingham straightened abruptly and resumed his pacing, leaving the window open…

**~o~O~o~**

The next morning, nonetheless, met him triumphant. His nightly vigil had paid off as Walsingham had at last found what he was so looking for. His spirits could not have even be dampened by the rapidly growing ache in his head, which he attributed to his sleepless night.

As he passed through the halls, people hurried to clear his path. The conversations wilted or became hushed as he walked by.

"There goes Walsingham," he heard one lady whisper to another behind an open fan of ostrich feathers. "Looks something terrible today, does he not?"

"He looks as terrible today, as he does always," her friend replied with a titter. "Mind you, it is not his looks that make him interesting. At night, all cats look gray."

"Look – yes, feel – no," came the first lady's reply and the two exploded with giggles.

This conversation did not surprise him. More than a fair share of women in this hall, at one time or another, had the opportunity to test his skill. While some of them were, no doubt, insulted by his refusal to let them spend the night, none of them left his bedchamber disappointed, for his abilities compensated in spades for his lack of interest.

Elizabeth was somewhat surprised to see him return, bearing the same request she had declined the day before. Tilting her head, topped with a miniature crown tucked snugly amidst the red curls, she looked at him expectantly, very much ready to resume yesterday's battle.

"Remind me, Walsingham," she taunted. "What is it I pay you for? Like a bad penny that returns to the owner after being cast off, you return to me every morning, bearing the same news. Perhaps, from now on, I shall pay your wage in pennies instead of sovereigns?"

"As you wish, Majesty," Walsingham replied, not taking the bait, "but only after you read this."

Looking doubtful, the Queen received the parchment. Evidently, it was a copy of a letter, written by Bothwell to one of his close friends. A section of it had been underlined in scarlet ink. It read:

"… _I supremely recommend you, my dear friend, to visit a Jew by the name of Ishmael, shall you ever doubt the good fortune in your life. On the fortnight, I visited his dwelling, where he performed a ritual of old to make my fortune known. After doing so, he became greatly awed, falling to his knees before my person and proclaiming that he had seen a crown upon my head. Mindful of my prospects, I inquired him whether it was a crown of Scotland. He denied it, saying that the crown he had seen is of much grander value. In a hushed voice, he foretold that I shall rule one of the greatest countries in the known world, confirming the feeling I have born inside of me for some time now. Therefore, I shall move at once and make my first step towards the crown that is already mine. All that separates me from it is time. She will deny me no more, for she is no longer in a position to do so…_"

"Who is that 'she' he speak of?" The Queen lifted her head abruptly. Walsingham noted that, at last, her face bore no trace of jest. At last, she had seen what he had seen long ago.

"I do believe that that woman in question is Queen Mary herself," the spymaster replied.

"And what is it he wishes to receive from her?" Elizabeth continued.

"If Your Majesty further examines the letter, you will find that it is dated not a week before the nuptials of Lord Bothwell and Queen Mary of Scotts were held," Sir Francis supplied.

"Why would she not deny him?" Elizabeth asked again.

"Of that, Majesty, I have no clear explanation," Walsingham said. "However," he continued, allowing himself a thin smile upon seeing her frustration, "if I am allowed, I could venture a guess."

"Go on," the Queen ordered, her face belying her impatience.

"As you well aware, Madam," Walsingham said, "the relationship between Queen Mary and Lord Bothwell is most obscure. According to the letters Mary had written to her sister, sometime in the end of April she was abducted by Lord Bothwell and his men on her way from Stirling to Edinburgh, and forcibly taken to Dunbar Castle. Her description of the incident is most obscure, yet I can deduce that his conduct with her was most improper. That, combined with the testimony of Mary Stuart's own lady in waiting, who described that the Queen soon after developed an aversion to food and required looser garments, leads me to believe that she took pregnant after the abduction. Therefore, Bothwell knew that should he ask for her hand, Mary would be forced to agree to his proposal, if she desired to legitimize their unborn child. He was sure of it, since a Queen, whose rule is so precarious, cannot allow herself to produce a bastard."

"All that I see so far," Elizabeth spoke, "is that Mary Stuart is a victim of a man's crime, not a perpetrator of one."

"Having had the taste of proper rule in France, Mary shall never be satisfied with her volatile throne in Scotland, where she is distrusted and disliked by many. In the eyes of Catholic Europe, she and she only, is the rightful heir to the throne of England. Her relationship with Bothwell, which began long before the abduction, is now strengthened by marriage. She is quite changed towards him, reportedly showering her new husband with much care and affection. I have not a doubt that her own desire to rule England, reassured by the upstart of a husband she now adores and encouraged by the Pope, will sooner or later lead her to act against you." Walsingham held a pause. "Need you more evidence, Majesty?" he asked as soon as he felt that his silence was long enough to produce the desired effect.

For a minute, the Queen gave no reply. Then, her hand came flying up in a demanding gesture.

"Your parchment," she ordered.

Immediately, the document was procured and laid in front of her. Dipping the quill into the inkpot, Elizabeth placed a resolute signature upon it.

"You have won, Sir Francis," she said, laying down the quill and leaning against the back of her chair with a small smile.

"It is not my personal victory that I seek," Walsingham replied, bowing, "but Your Majesty's victory, which is also a victory for England."

"Very well," Elizabeth said dismissively, adapting a jesting tone once more. "Now, go rest, old man. By God, you look dreadful today. The mere look of you is scaring away my ladies."

It was evident that, after giving into him, she nonetheless desired for the last word to be hers. Having won his argument, Walsingham did not mind indulging her. Once again, he bowed in compliance and turned to leave.

The last messenger was long since gone, carrying the precious letters of instruction towards Scotland, yet Walsingham found no peace. Pacing in his study once more, again and again, he went over the coded instructions he had sent and predicted their outcome.

So far, everything was simple. The Lords in Scotland were in much discontent. All that was required was a knowing nudge in right direction. Just like a skilled logger would know exactly which way the tree will fall, a politician as expert as Walsingham knew precisely what needed to be said and done if he desired the Lords to rebel against Mary's authority. As soon as the letters reach the few men in Scotland faithful to him, the game could begin.

However, there was no time to celebrate. Returning to his desk, Walsingham picked up a scroll and resumed his work. Document after a document, letter after a letter consumed his attention for the most part of the day.

Although it was no more than four in the afternoon when he had finally lifted his head, the winter sky outside darkened rapidly. As the euphoria of having finally remedied the situation had subsided, a feeling of great fatigue came flooding over his whole body. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate on the task at hand.

After half an hour, Sir Francis was forced to admit defeat. Words lost their meanings, drowning in his growing headache. Perhaps, he thought, an hour or two of rest would do him some good, before another night of labor began.

Lighting a single a candle, Walsingham extinguished both candlesticks on his desks and retired to his bedchamber.

**~o~O~o~**

He awoke with a start in complete darkness. A lone candle on the bedside table must have gone out. He knew not what time it was, yet he knew that something was badly amiss.

The nap he took did not only fail to alleviate his headache and weariness, but instead it made them worse. The pounding in his temples had intensified, his head vibrating with pain. Stars were blossoming in front of his eyes, violently bright against the surrounding darkness; they grew and then exploded to be replaced by dozens of others. He could feel that his entire body was aflame.

At last, he was able to recognize that the symptoms he experienced earlier were not to be attributed to the wakeful night alone. Walsingham remembered the previous evening when he, heated by his pacing and his excitement, opened the window to take in the air. Distracted, he failed to see the potential danger such an act could bear.

Somewhere, on the edge of his burning mind, he remembered that any minute now, Victoria was due to walk through his door. He needed to send Jerome and tell her not to come. He had no desire to expose himself in such vulnerable state.

The need to get up, or at least to summon his servants swirled about his consciousness, distorted by the rising heat. In the end, he had to give in. The room quivered in front of him, the vivid colors flickering and fading abruptly. He closed his eyes tiredly, for such explosion of color caused his head to pound unmercifully, and fell into unconsciousness…

**~o~O~o~**

A cooling touch of a soft palm made him open his eyes. The room was now lit, and Sir Francis could barely make out a Victoria's concerned face though the chaos of swirling stars. So, she had come after all…

"Jerome!" he heard her call out. "Come here, quickly!"

Footsteps thundered in his aching head. Although he could not see the boy, he could deduce that he had come, for a moment later, Victoria addressed him.

"Run and fetch a doctor," she spoke urgently. "His Grace has a high fever."

No response came. Walsingham guessed that Jerome must have been most unwilling to follow orders from someone of such low stature in the presence of his master.

"Do…" Walsingham forced himself to say, "as… as she says…"

It was all that was needed. The sound of footsteps returned as Jerome must have run off to fetch Master Tobias Shaw, Walsingham's personal physician and the only man alive His Grace would entrust himself to in such weakened state.

With Jerome's departure, Walsingham once more remained alone in Victoria's company. The best way to measure this woman's mettle, Walsingham chuckled mentally, closing his eyes. Now, when he lay disabled in her presence, would she remain the same, or would she cast aside the mask of meekness to reveal different aspirations.

He felt a tremor of movement as she must have gotten up. The noise of ripping cloth was followed closely by clinking of china and the sound of pouring water.

A wet cloth, which was placed on his forehead momentarily, relieved him immensely. The fever took a step back, tiredness promptly taking its place.

"There," he heard Victoria speak gently, as he felt her hand on his.

Just before the slumber overtook him, Walsingham could have sworn that he felt her lips upon his. He knew not for how long their tender touch had lingered, for he fell asleep soon after and knew no more.

**~o~O~o~**

The room melted in the heat of his fever as he opened his eyes unthinkingly. The walls of stone wobbled like melted wax, ready to fall at any minute. Sir Francis could hear nothing over the hammering in his aching head. Whenever he shut his eyes, bright whirling circles and bursting stars danced in front of him, making Walsingham sick to his stomach and worsening his headache. For that reason, he was grateful for his frequent lapses into unconsciousness.

As though through a thick veil of fog, Walsingham could feel himself being handled by faceless hands, for his delirium prevented him from recognizing their owners. He felt hands rub ointment on his chest, change a compress on his forehead, or supply him with water when he found the strength to ask for it. Whoever that must have been, they seemed to have been constantly present by his side. He felt hands flutter about him continually, striving to provide him with the most comfort.

From his early childhood, Sir Francis frequently spent weeks on end on the sickbed. An elder son, he could have been the third, were it not for his mother who miscarried twice before he was conceived. Despite the poor woman spending four months in confinement for the sake of the child, this third precarious pregnancy ended early. Born about four weeks before his time, the child looked overly small and had visible difficulty breathing. Fearing for his survival, his father, Sir William Walsingham, baptized his long-awaited heir within half an hour of his birth. However, against all odds, the boy survived. After a month of excruciating uncertainty, the doctors finally declared that the child would live. One of them predicted that the newborn's weak lungs would continue to cause problems as long as the child should live. Yet even that ominous prediction could not dampen his parents' high spirits, for they finally had managed to produce a child.

Very soon, nearly three years after their dearest Francis was born, they had learned that the doctors' warning could not be ignored. That early spring, a cold breeze must have gotten him while he played outside under the vigilant eye of his nurse. What started with a mere cough, quickly took a turn for the worst. For three weeks, the child's life remained in danger. As before, Francis recovered, but his parents never treated him the same. He was precious to them, and from that very time they treated him as though he was made of glass. He was not allowed to run, climb trees, or play in the puddles. Athletics were out of the question. Francis was not forbidden, yet strongly discouraged from spending a long time outside. Every time he wished to step out, he was bundled up for dear life. Walsingham had clearly remembered Lady Joyce once having a hysterical fit, when, wishing to take a stroll in the garden on one a summer evening, he had forgotten to put on his fur-lined cloak.

Alas, these measures were not enough to keep Francis from ailing. Commonly, he fell ill three to four times a year. After each lapse, the measures for guarding his wellbeing became ever more constricting. As he grew, Francis found them progressively more irksome. Not allowed to do whatever was natural for every small boy, Francis turned to books. Having few friends growing up, the boy's character formed to be a somber and thoughtful one. Pretty soon, he craved no more play or walks; he merely wised to be left to his reading.

He got his wish when he was eleven. With the birth of his brother, William, Lady Joyce's vigilance weakened as she fawned over her newborn miracle, for her youngest was born absolutely healthy. Proud to be an older brother, Francis was also grateful to William for his newfound freedom. Fortuitously, his periods of ill health had shortened, also becoming fewer in number. Whenever he was forced to return to bed, he looked upon it philosophically, accepting it as a part of his being. Gradually, he had grown to accept it, getting more and more used to it as time flew by.

Acceptance, on the other hand, did not make it easier to live with. Every time Sir Francis took sick, it was never limited to the runny nose or sore throat. Lying on his sickbed, he hoped that the disease would not go as far as his lungs, limiting itself to a few days. The opposite meant living hell: weeks upon weeks spent in agony and fever, gasping for every breath. He had been there already, five times too many, and wished not to increase this number.

But he also knew that this was out of his hands. Not in the hands of God, for he believed not in such things, but in the hands of his physician, who had many times restored him to health from such an abysmal state.

Closing his eyes tiredly, Walsingham returned to the realm of bodiless voices and bizarre visions…

**~o~O~o~**

The eyelids of the sleeping man fluttered open. The lights in the bedchamber were very dim, yet still it disturbed his eyes a great deal. It must have been nighttime, for the windows were uncovered, yet no light came through.

Sir Francis slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position. As he did so, something fell off his forehead and onto his lap. He looked down. It was a white linen cloth, still damp, evidently intended to sooth his fever. Walsingham's muscles ached unmercifully, objecting even the slightest strain. He felt very weak, swirls of feverish fog still churning about his thoughts, yet he felt much, much better compared to what he felt before.

Examining his surroundings, he saw Victoria sleeping in an armchair by his bedside. Her outfit bore unmistakable signs of neglect. Her yellow dress was creased, with a few stains scattered across the fabric, one of which was unmistakably blood. Her hair was arranged into a loose braid that fell off her shoulder and onto her lap. An embroidery hoop was tipping precariously from her fingers. A prayer book lay open next to her on the small table. All this suggested that she must have spent a long time by his bedside.

It was something unexpected for Walsingham to see her there. She was not his wife, who was obliged to be by her husband's side come what may, not a nurse, who was paid for every hour spent by the sickbed, and definitely not a nun, who pledged herself to serving God and all His creatures. It was out of the pure kindness of her heart, that Victoria spent hours, perhaps days tending to him. Sir Francis had already seen that in her nature, but to see it unfold in front of him was something entirely different.

Or was it more than mere kindness? As of late, he began to notice the way she looked at him or the way she sighed every time she had to leave his presence. Victoria had probably fallen fast in love with him, for he was the only one who showed her the gentleness she so yearned for. Pity, Walsingham thought, that he had not thought of it when he took her in. He had no desire to see her so attached, since it would make it hard to part from her, once her presence wore dull.

The hoop slid another inch from the woman's fingers. Sir Francis grabbed it before it fell. The tremor of his interference had woken Victoria. With a light gasp, she sat up.

"F-forgive me," she stammered, hastily rubbing her eyes, "I must have dozed off."

"How long was I ill?" Walsingham asked, lying back down. Even a small action had drained him completely.

"Three days," Victoria replied, laying her hoop aside to adjust his pillow. Her soft hand touched his forehead. It was most peculiar, for she was much younger than him, but the kind weight of her palm felt as though the one of a mother. "I had come to answer your summons and found you lying upon your bed, burning up. Master Tobias did all he could, before he recognized he had no choice but to let the blood."

"Sure," Walsingham whispered with a humorless laugh, "what else would he do? Modern physicians would bleed even a dying man in hope to save him."

"It worked," Victoria said quietly. "He lanced the vein in the early morning. It is near midnight now and your fever is no more."

"Have you been here for all of it?" Walsingham asked. "Have you no fear of blood?"

At the mere mention, Victoria's face tinged with green.

"Someone had to hold the basin," she whispered.

"Jerome could have attended to that," Sir Francis said.

"It is not a man's job to sit by another man's side," Victoria said.

"But it is not yours either," Walsingham continued. He had already seen the answer in her eyes, yet he desired to draw it from her own lips. "It is the duty of a wife and you are no wife to me."

It was a harsh statement. If she felt anything for him, it was meant to force it to the surface. However, this verbal strike was meant rather to provoke Victoria, than to genuinely affront her.

"Yes," Victoria replied. Her eyebrows twitched painfully at his words, but otherwise she had showed no reaction, "but, as my experience shows me, duties of the one can be taken upon by the other, if they so wish. It is your duty to bed your wife, yet you choose to bed another. It would be my duty to sit by my husband's side if I had one, yet I chose to sit by yours. One fine turn deserves another."

Although she had expressed herself in her usual humble tone, the words she used sounded unmistakably wounded. This poor woman sat by his side for three days and just as many nights without leave. Good as Victoria was, she was only human. She was too careworn and fatigued to be able to retain a perfect composure while faced with such severity. On the other hand, his ruse had worked well, exposing exactly the emotions he suspected her to harbor.

Yet, Walsingham thought as he observed her picking miserably at the spot on her sleeve, he had no authority over her heart. However poor or dependant a woman might be, her heart would still be her own. Victoria allowed him a free rein over her body, so would he not let her heart be? If she loved him, why not let her? It could do him no harm. Taking pity on her, Walsingham smiled as he sat up once more.

"Come to me," he said kindly, extending his hand.

She looked up.

"My Lord?" she asked, sounding puzzled. Her voice trembled slightly as though she was but an inch from dissolving into tears.

"Come," he repeated, motioning for her to follow his invitation.

Clearly looking as though she doubted that any good might come of it, Victoria left her seat and climbed onto the bed. As she sat next to him, still staring at her knees, Sir Francis grabbed her lightly by the chin, tipping her head up, and looked into her eyes. His smile widened for a moment, just before he placed a long kiss on her lips. Victoria replied timidly, as though doubting she truly had the right to it.

"What is it, my Lord?" she asked after he broke the kiss.

"My gratitude," Walsingham replied softly.

Only a man as practiced with women as Sir Francis was, could maneuver the situation so well. Only a minute ago Victoria looked as though she might cry, but now she was grinning again.

"You are most welcome," she replied softly. Taking up his right hand, she looked over the healing puncture on the crook of his arm. Apparently pleased with what she saw, she looked up at him again.

"You must rest, my Lord," she urged gently.

"So must you." Walsingham lay down, pulling her to his side. "Commonly, I do not allow women to sleep upon my bed, unless they have earned that right. Taking your state into account, I could agree to a postponement. Perhaps in a few days, you can settle you debt."

"It would be my pleasure," Victoria replied, turning to her side and wrapping her arm around his chest. Like any weary person who also happens to possess good health and a clear conscience, she fell asleep quickly, her light breath rippling the lace trim upon the neck of his shirt.

Just before closing his eyes, Walsingham thought of the woman who once again slumbered by his side. Victoria was still but a mistress, an instrument for his pleasure, yet her devotion had touched him. It was just a diminutive change, yet he could no longer see her as a mere toy. It was not much at all, but considering the person she managed to touch, it was a great accomplishment.

**~o~**


	8. Chapter 8

**~o~**

The next morning, the slowly rising sun greeted Walsingham as he opened his eyes. The cold outside must have been bitter still, but a clear, glowing, blue sky corresponded wondrously with the spymaster's change of health. After a lengthy sleep he felt nearly whole again; the disease, while not completely gone, had surrendered a lot of ground.

Restfully, Sir Francis thought that it was most likely the time for him to get up and resume his duties. A quiet sigh intruded upon his musings. Tilting his head to the left, he saw Victoria slumbering peacefully by his side. Her copper hair had come completely loose in her sleep, falling on her face. She smiled lightly at something she had probably seen in her dreams. Surprisingly, the sight of this girl put duty out of his mind, which had never happened before. After all, the spymaster thought, his physician would be aggravated a great deal should His Grace leave the bed prematurely. Counting the present company, Walsingham felt it to be extremely convenient for once to play an obedient patient.

Lightly, the spymaster took up an auburn lock that lay spread on the white sheet. The hair felt as smooth as silk in his fingers. Again, he marveled at her youth. Had Walsingham married at a proper time, now he would probably have a daughter of her age. Yet the feelings Victoria inspired within him were not at all paternal. There was no doubt about the many advantages of youth when it came to carnal pleasures. Smooth young skin, a glow of health all about a firm-limbed body, and, of course, a certain delightful tightness, that was lost irrefutably with age and childbirth. Just for once, Walsingham decided to give into yet another scarce self-serving impulse and spend some time in peace and enjoyment.

As he smiled crookedly at his judgment, Walsingham's gaze fell upon Victoria's prayer book that still lay on the side table. Although his mindset was a one completely opposite of religious, he felt curious. Careful not to wake Victoria, Sir Francis leaned over her and picked up the book. The volume was old, yet visibly well cared for. Bound in brown leather, it bore a single cross of peeling gold on its cover. Propping himself on an elbow, Walsingham leafed through the pages. Had the owner of this book been someone else, rather than an unassuming girl, they would have been in considerable danger. From a single glance, Sir Francis saw it to be not _The Book of Common Prayer_, but an old Catholic text.

The spymaster deduced immediately that in Victoria's instance it meant nothing sinister. After all, she grew up in Scotland, a principally Catholic country, as a ward to a bishop. These Catholic prayers were all she knew from her very childhood. She had no mind to deem it dangerous to bring this prayer book into his chambers. Truly, it was touching, Walsingham smiled lightly, that she prayed for him, even though he cared not for such things. Throughout her life, Victoria probably knew no other ally but the Supreme Being she addressed in her prayers.

Looking away from the book, Walsingham's eyes met Victoria's. The girl lay, now awake, studying his face.

"A Catholic prayer book," Walsingham noted, "in the chambers of one of the strongest adherents of the Protestant rule. How unjust are the people who say that I labor day and night, scheming to seek out Catholics. In truth, they simply come to me."

Looking at her, he saw what he expected: fear. She had probably forgotten all about the book or thought it to be worthless for attracting his attention.

"Come what may," Victoria replied at last, visibly gathering her courage, "everything is in God's hands."

"Do you believe that, child?" Walsingham asked slowly. "Do you believe there is indeed a God?"

"I do, Your Grace," Victoria replied simply.

"And where is your proof of that?" Walsingham continued, laying the book aside.

"His mercy, Your Grace, that I can see to be constantly present in my life," Victoria said, sitting up for a better look at him. "By the grace of God alone, was I relieved from my miserable condition, delivered from a man who tortured me daily and placed here, where…"

Victoria blushed copiously without finishing the sentence.

"Go on, my dear," Sir Francis urged gently.

"… where I had tasted something I long had lost hope to have," Victoria finished in whisper.

Walsingham's eyebrows shot up lightly.

"What about the other side of the coin?" he asked. "Who had placed you in the way of harm? Who had left you to be robbed of your parents, your estate and your virtue?"

"Father Augustine used to say that it is the Devil's work to undermine the innocent, thus tempting them to turn to evil," Victoria spoke quietly.

"What kind of God lets His will be overwhelmed by some other entity?" Walsingham continued. "Is God not stronger than the Devil? If the Devil can interfere with God's design and prevail, must he not have the powers to rival God's own strength?"

This question had stumped her. Victoria looked as though she had nothing to reply.

"You have studied philosophy and theology, my Lord," she spoke finally. "Who am I to best you in a dispute? I believe that there is a God, a creator and well-wisher of all that lives, and to Him I shall give my eternal thanks for my present good fortune."

"Those who believe in God, have seen too little of this world," Walsingham replied. "Once a man becomes privy to all the evils in the world, he understands that there is no God, for if there was one, He would not allow the evil to spread unchecked and so rapidly. I am the maker of my own destiny, and whether it is good or not depends entirely on me. You would do well to adopt the same view, my dear. Adultery is a mortal sin in the eyes of the church. Surely, your God would be angered if you lay with another woman's husband?"

"I pray daily for Him to forgive me this sin," Victoria whispered, "for I believe that His mercy is stronger than His wrath."

"I care not which God you worship or how you choose to worship Him," Walsingham said, grinning dismissively as he let himself fall back on the pillows, "for it is not Him you praise while in my arms, but me. As long as it remains so, your religion is of no concern to me."

Victoria looked at him, brushing the stray lock of hair away from her eyes.

"Truly," she said quietly, "you are a most unusual person."

Walsingham lifted an eyebrow slowly.

"What makes you say that, my child?" he asked, turning to her.

"Every Catholic in England fears you," she replied, "yet you welcome a Catholic knowingly to your bed. The way Her Majesty dislikes your frank manner is known well at court, yet you show me nothing but kindness. People curse your name, yet my life was meaningless before I dared to enter your chambers…"

Victoria looked at him, her blue eyes filled with adoration.

"Why, my Lord?" she whispered.

Walsingham laid his head on his folded hands, striving to adopt a more comfortable position. His eyebrows bent thoughtfully as he digested what she had said, a small smile lingering on his lips.

"There is a time and a place for everything, my dear," Sir Francis replied at last, his palm extending to stroke her cheek. "Rest assured, had I deemed you dangerous in any way, you would have found my treatment of you quite different."

Walsingham's caressing fingers glided gently down her neck. Before Victoria knew it, his hand had closed around her throat. Lady York took a sharp breath of surprise; she was not too alarmed, however, for his grip was of negligible strength.

"Human life is a fragile thing, child," Walsingham spoke. "It takes so much effort to give life, yet it takes near to nothing at all to take it away. Should I wish it, you would never leave my chambers alive."

Victoria's eyes widened as his grip strengthened. Panic awoke in her eyes as for a moment she saw Walsingham's gaze change; it was now gleaming like merciless steel of an executioner's axe, like soulless metal from which there is no escape. Despite such a turn of events, she made no gesture to protect her person or to force his hand away. She sat upon the bed, her eyes wide, taking rapid, slightly labored breaths. Walsingham thought that should he indeed decide to kill her, she would let him do so without a fight. She would surrender, just as she always had.

Killing her was no use, Walsingham thought next. As many lives as he had taken, he had never before killed without reason. He merely wanted to allow Victoria a glimpse of his other side, so she would not grow complacent. Nearly a moment ago, she as good as confessed her love to him. Now, he wished to show her just _what_ exactly she fell in love with. Sir Francis had just presented her with yet another lesson, now he desired his payment.

Walsingham's eyes softened at last. Without relinquishing her throat, he pulled her into a kiss. Deepening the kiss rapidly, Walsingham forced her under him. Victoria must have been still shaken, for she did not embrace him. Her hands lay helplessly on either side of her head as he pushed up her skirts.

"A warning for now," Walsingham whispered, pulling away, "so you might spare no effort to maintain your good name carefully. Until you are truly guilty, you have nothing to fear from me."

Slowly caressing her thigh, the spymaster brought her leg to his waist. His chest rubbed against the fabric of her bodice.

"Nonetheless, my dear," Sir Francis whispered, "you shall _die_ before long. Would you like that?"

He could see that Victoria was slowly calming. The alarm was all but gone, yet it still remained in the very corners of her eyes. Walsingham knew only one true remedy to drive it away completely.

"I would, my Lord," Victoria whispered. Her hands closed around him at last, letting him know that she would surrender unto him yet again.

**~o~O~o~**

The first thing Sir Francis saw when he opened his eyes was Jerome. The boy seemed to have just come in and was seriously contemplating whether it was acceptable to wake his master.

"What is it, Jerome?" Walsingham asked, turning towards the youth.

"Sir Robert eez 'ere," Jerome said, visibly relieved to be rid of his dilemma.

"Has something happened?" Walsingham asked, getting up. This had proven rather difficult, since he had once again fallen asleep his limbs tangled with Victoria's. Fortunately, the girl slept on as he gently detached himself from her.

"I do not believe so," the boy replied. "I believe 'e simply wishes to see you."

Walsingham shook his head. Of course, what could be simpler? The old goat had, no doubt, heard of his patron falling ill, and had now trotted in to assess the state of affairs. Walsingham's end, should the situation turn that serious, meant also the end of Sir Robert Beale. There was also a care for a friend and a relative in there somewhere, yet it was so small and so deeply buried, it was not worth mentioning.

"Tell him I shall be along shortly," Walsingham said, accepting a dressing gown Jerome promptly handed him.

The boy bowed and left.

Alone, Walsingham donned the dressing gown atop his nightshirt. Tying the sash around his waist, Walsingham approached a mirror. As he combed his hair hastily with his fingers, Sir Francis studied his expression. While being slightly flushed, his face did not look much out of the ordinary. All things considered, Walsingham remained satisfied with what he saw.

Just as he was ready to leave the bedroom, his eyes fell upon the bed where Victoria still slept. A real sight she was indeed. When he finished with her, Walsingham did not bother to cover her back up; as a result, her skirts were bunched around her midsection, leaving her slender alabaster legs exposed hip down. Victoria's bodice was partly unlaced, the voluptuousness of her breasts near fully exposed. Her hair thrown around her like a waning halo and a sweet, perfectly innocent expression on her face as she slept, gave her the appearance of a fallen angel.

Knowing not why, Sir Francis walked back to the bed and sat down. Taking in the woman's figure once more, he realized that all this belonged to him. The others before her desired to give nothing, wanting only to take. Victoria was the first who understood that she was in no position to demand anything from a man so powerful. She accepted his dominance as something natural, as something that required no dispute. That was why when she gave herself to him, she tasted like a goblet of old wine, one sip of which was able to befuddle even the staunchest among the worshipers of Bacchus. Yet, she knew nothing of her power and in this her ignorance lay her greatest strength.

Walsingham slowly ran his palm over Victoria's head; then, he leaned in and kissed her lips. He did so for the same reason a rich misanthrope spends hours on end in the cellar of his house, running his greedy, shaking fingers through the piles of gold coins he owns: to be continuously able to relish his ownership. He kissed her simply because he could. Standing up, Walsingham left her to rest alone.

"Have you come to congratulate me on getting well, Robert?" Walsingham asked, entering his study.

"Oh, you know me better than that, Francis," Beale replied, getting up from his chair. "The rumor around is that you are once again at death's door. Many hopefuls are praying this very minute for you to finally walk through it. How they will lament once they learn their yearnings have been foiled. Evidently, Beelzebub himself keeps you from harm." With that Sir Robert bowed.

Walsingham scoffed, acknowledging his greeting.

"I believe in the existence of Beelzebub no more than I believe in the existence of God," he said, lowering himself into a chair by the fire. "However, I do believe strongly in a good physician."

"He has done a fair job," Beale muttered, sitting down opposite to Walsingham and eyeing him appraisingly. "You look as good as new."

"Nearly," Walsingham replied, clapping his hands.

In reply to Walsingham's summons, Jerome had entered the chamber, carrying a bottle of wine. After pouring the ruby liquid into the two goblets he also brought along, the youth promptly dissolved into the darkness of the hall.

"To your restored health," Sir Robert toasted, "which bodes ill for the health of scores and scores of people."

"As many as necessary," Sir Francis brought his glass to touch Beale's, "but hopefully not that great a number."

"Getting a wee bit relaxed, are you not?" Beale gave him a second look, a more searching one this time. "Oh my, is that color on your cheeks? I declare, Francis, I sense something out of place with you. If I knew not of your dedication, I would say you are conjuring up an illness to stay in bed."

Walsingham grinned.

"Another funny rumor I heard too," Beale continued, sensing that Walsingham was in the mood to take a jest, "about that girl you asked me of. Victoria, was it? The rumor is she had all but disappeared around four days ago. And, fancy that, it happens to be about the very same time you fell ill! Do you happen to know where she got to?"

Walsingham's smiled widened.

"I would be a very poor right hand of yours if I was unable to put the facts together, now wouldn't I?" Sir Robert finished. "It is either you have tired of her and ordered to drown her in a bag like a cook disposes of a thieving cat, or..." Sir Robert smiled crookedly, "you have been rogering her all this time."

Walsingham laughed.

"Oh, I would never abandon my duty for the sake of a girl," he replied, "and I can assure you I have been genuinely ill, until this very morning."

"It happens to be four in the afternoon," Beale said pointedly, his mouth curling in a wicked smile.

"I have stayed in bed to appease Master Tobias," Walsingham said, unabashed. "Should I, due to my carelessness, relapse into the sickness and live to tell the tale, I shall never hear the end of it."

"Since when did you become such an obliging patient, Francis?" Beale asked, scoffing.

"Since the very time I realized that bed rest need not be dull, Robert," Walsingham said, taking a sip from his goblet.

Sir Robert tittered. Suddenly, a thought had occurred to him that put the laugher out of his mind.

"You do not fancy the little totty?" he asked incredulously, taking a scrutinizing look of his patron's face. "If you do, I shall have her burned at the stake for bewitching you."

"I fancy her about as much as I fancy Artemis, my best bitch of a pointer," Walsingham replied coolly. "As for her bewitching me, the answer is quite plain. When was the last time you bedded someone below thirty years of age and who has not yet given birth?"

Beale nodded approvingly.

"Youth has its definite advantages," he said, taking a sip of his wine. "I would very much like to appraise them."

Walsingham was somewhat surprised to feel a twinge of annoyance at Beale's words; usually, he could very well take whatever frivolous comments Beale chose to make.

"You can have her _after_ I have finished with her," he said, "but not before."

"Point taken, Francis," Beale laughed. "I shall take care not intrude upon your merriment."

"You _have _intruded upon my merriment," Walsingham lifted his eyebrows, "as you have roused me from my bed, or have you forgotten that already?"

With this comment, Beale understood that the audience was over.

"I shall leave you to it, then," Sir Robert stood up, putting his goblet on the table.

"Inform me at once if any news from Scotland arrives," Walsingham reminded.

"It will be done," Beale bowed. "Should you bed Aphrodite herself, I shall risk my very life to drag you from her bed for the sake of the state."

"I shall execute you for the interruption, of course," Walsingham replied, "yet I promise to reward you posthumously for your dutifulness."

"Greeks used to put two coins on the fallen one's eyes so he could pay the boatman to cross the river Styx," Beale shrugged sourly. "Make sure you put a few more coins in my pocket so I can hire a couple of good whores the minute I get off the ferry."

"Sadly, you are allowed to bring but two coins, Robert," Walsingham said.

"What am I to do then?" Beale demanded. "An eternity spent tossing off is a bloody dreadful time."

"We shall see what we can do to remedy your state," Walsingham replied, nodding. "After all, there is always a benefit to playing lackey to the Devil's own aid."

Beale winked.

"Never doubted it for a moment, old friend," he said confidently.

Once alone, Walsingham returned to the bedchamber. Of course, he had not yet bedded Aphrodite, and he probably never would; not unless Victoria's haughty friend, Lady Ashton tired of her husband, that was. What he had, on the other hand, was a young girl and a better half of the day, and the last thing he intended to do was letting them to go to waste.

**~o~O~o~**

The next morning, everything was back to the ordinary. The sun hid once more behind the clouds and Walsingham, as well as his youthful paramour, were to go back to their respective daily duties.

Half-dressed, Victoria stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair. Already fully clad, Walsingham observed her hurriedly trying to adopt a presentable enough appearance to return back to her quarters and change her dress before going on duty.

Ever attentive, the spymaster noticed Victoria's efforts to hide from him the miserable state of her present outfit. A big strip was missing from the hem of one of her petticoats. Upon seeing it, Walsingham at once remembered the compress she used to soothe his fever; she must have savaged her own attire in her haste to bring him immediate relief. Victoria's dress that still lay on the bed also looked like a cause long lost. Crumpled from being worn, as well as slept in, for so long, its yellow fabric was stained with several blots of blood and medicine.

"Do you always take such poor care of your wardrobe, my Lady?" Walsingham joked.

"No, my Lord," Victoria replied, jostling pin after pin into her coif, "only when the occasion is grave enough to seize my complete attention."

"Do you know of some clever trick to restore it?" Walsingham pointed at the dress.

"I am a seamstress, my Lord," Victoria grinned, "not a sorceress. No," she continued sadly, picking up the gown, "its days are numbered. It was already rather getting on in years when it came into my possession and now, by the looks of it, the time is ripe to say our goodbyes."

"Getting on in years?" Walsingham asked.

"It was my friend Margaret's," Victoria said. "I had not a penny when I left my uncle's house, you see, and she offered me to pick whatever I liked from her wardrobe."

"It looks not like what Lady Ashton usually wears," Walsingham laughed. Having the opportunity to see Lady Margaret near daily, the spymaster knew her style to be quite different. Her lavish dresses were designed as meticulously as a setting to a diamond, to further amplify the wearer's great natural beauty.

"Before the marriage, Margaret's mother made her wear them to dull her appearance, fearing that her daughter's looks would prompt an attempt on her chastity," Victoria said, shaking the dress a few times in an effort to force it into a more presentable state. "Margaret hated them so and was greatly pleased to be rid of them. She offered me newer garments, of course, yet I did not take them. I am somewhat greater endowed than my dear friend," Victoria reddened, "and I would rather keep this fact to myself. Otherwise, every time I would lean over, I would constantly fear that _something_ would spring loose."

Walsingham smiled.

"Still," he said, "wearing a dress like Margaret Ashton's, you would find yourself a husband in no time at all. I know men who would give half of their family fortune for a single glance at the treasures you possess."

"Certainly," Victoria said. "They would give half of their fortune to me and another half to the very next pair of splendid bosoms that walks by."

"You shall still have your half," Sir Francis pointed out.

"That half would soon enough be wasted on other women," Victoria said, slipping on her dress. "What would our children eat?"

Walsingham laughed, he simply could not help it. It was so odd to observe such sensibility in someone as young. Approaching her once more, he took up the laces of her dress.

"But surely, my dear," Walsingham said as he tightened the lacing, "you realize that you need to try your hardest to find a man to wed. Our time together is no doubt pleasant, but it is not everlasting. "

Was it a sigh he heard her heave?

"I would never dare to make demands on you, my Lord," she replied. She stood with her back to him and her face was impossible to see. "It shall be my greatest pleasure to serve you for as long as you are willing to have me. I desire nothing more."

"What will you do once we part ways?" Walsingham asked, securing the laces.

"I shall live as I have lived before, my Lord," Victoria replied, "forever grateful for the benevolence you have shown me."

"Do you not wish to marry, child?" Walsingham asked. "I could help you."

Victoria turned towards him. Looking up, she shook her head.

"Men who could be of interest to me, would take care to choose a bride whose good name and maidenhead are still intact," Victoria said, smoothing the skirt of her dress. "Alas, I have nothing to offer them; men who care not for such things have nothing to offer me."

She took up his hand and brought it tenderly to her lips.

"I thank you for your kindness, my Lord," she spoke quietly.

Bowing deeply, Victoria requested his permission to take her leave. Dismissed by Walsingham's nod, she left.

**~o~O~o~**

The winter day rolled quickly towards a close. Once the clock had struck four, it was already as dark as night. Yet, life continued to run its usual course. Servants bustled back and forth, making sure people of high birth lacked nothing. The workmen tirelessly stoked the fires in the all the many grates around the palace to preserve warmth. Liveried men weaved in and out of the crowd, lighting more candles and serving mulled ale, as well as wine, heated with exotic spices from the Indies. In every hall there was something to be seen. A jester, juggling odd objects and pulling faces at the crowd; a gypsy, reading the fortunes of all willing; a gymnast, awing the crowd by his ability of nearly tying his living body into a knot; a troop of Italian lutists, weaving love hymns in the elegant tongue of their country. In such way, helped along by amusement and wine, the day waned.

As always, the spymaster was one of the few nobles in the palace who had neither the time nor the desire to while the day away by engaging in larking about. Even though no significant news had been reported in the period of his illness, the work had been accruing still. Walsingham had begun his day by paying his respects to the Queen, who had received him rather sourly. Apparently, having learned of the spymaster's illness, Her Majesty's current favorite, Sir Tomas Allan, had bet the Queen a hundred sovereigns that her Moor would surely expire this time around. Walsingham's reappearance within the realm of the living sent Allan into a fit of a poor looser's rage, which made him retreat to his quarters. Having won the bet, the Queen was nonetheless in poor spirits due to the absence of her favorite, and hinted that Sir Francis could have done her a great service by moving on to whatever region of netherworld was reserved for such frightful bores as himself. Bowing apologetically, Walsingham promptly began to inform the Queen of all the significant happenings in the past four days…

It did not take long. A rare task ever took Sir Francis long, for he always strived to be as efficient as possible. Yet, after four days of absence, so many things demanded to be done. In such manner, Walsingham greeted the end of the day on his feet. Catching a few verses of a Sicilian ballad as he passed through one of the halls without stopping, he continued on his way.

After a brightly lit chamber, a small corridor Walsingham had entered seemed as pitch-dark as a lake-full of ink. While for all the places in demand no light was spared, a few remote corridors hardly merited a candle or two. His steps echoing steadily in the darkness, Walsingham walked on, his mind returning to the Scottish affairs once more. Just as he was calculating yet again the approximate date after which he should start receiving first reports from his agents, a female scream tore through the hall.

The palatial halls were always filled suspicious noises. Those gloomy walls had seen many things, from couples making love to assassins whispering bloody murder. Fortunately, the latter had occurred much less often than the former.

The first scream was followed closely by the second, which was cut off abruptly as though forcibly silenced. Not too alarmed, Walsingham nonetheless decided not to leave it unchecked. Flawlessly identifying the direction from where the scream came, he headed cautiously towards the source of the commotion. The spymaster had learned long ago how to make no noise while walking upon those marble floors if he so wished. Combined with his dark robes that blended in so well with the darkness of the corridor, it granted him near invisible.

Making step after step, he discovered that he had not been mistaken. Clearly, he was approaching the scene, for the noises multiplied and were getting louder. Walsingham could now hear agitated shuffling and whimpers. It seemed that the woman could no longer scream, but he could clearly hear her muffled protests and the desperate rustling of her dress. This had given Walsingham the idea that the affair he came to witness was no lovers' quarrel.

Nearly twenty steps ahead, the corridor abruptly turned right. While the old gallery remained dark, the new path was lit brightly with several candlesticks. This proved ideal for Walsingham's purpose. Coming as close as the darkness allowed him, Walsingham rested his slender palm on the side of a column and appraised the situation before him.

Not a yard away from where the spymaster stood, a basket lay upturned on the floor, balls of yarn thrown here and there. Its unfortunate owner was pinned between the wall and a large, square-shouldered man. All Sir Francis could see of the assailant was his broad, muscular back, covered by a crimson cloak with an opulent gold trim. That was enough. This cloak was only too famous at court and belonged to none other than Lord Henry Percy, Eighth Earl of Northumberland.

Starting from his early adolescence, it was clear that Lord Percy had come into this world to not only inherit one of the richest estates in the kingdom, but also the extreme arrogance that had been a steady trait in his family for generations. Regardless of the ongoing dispute between the Church and science on whether the sun rotated around the Earth or the Earth rotated around the sun, from his very childhood Henry Percy knew firmly that the whole world turned around him. This god-like scheme of life came to a crushing halt in his youth when he was ordered by the King to marry Lady Katherine Neville. Insulted by cessation of bachelorly freedom, as well as a toffee-nosed, blue-blooded bride, who could rival him in the art of self-involvement, Lord Percy spent only about enough time in the marital bedchamber to sire children, which was a required duty for a noble of his standing. Each time after his wife took pregnant, Henry Percy disappeared and was nowhere to be found in his family house, until the time came for him to once more undertake his studding obligation. He spent most of his time at court, where he was assured an abundance of female attention. If Walsingham had slept with the good third of all the women in the palace, Lord Percy had slept with them twice. It was, of course, a highly inaccurate tally, for he only counted his encounters with the ladies of noble birth. He never thought much of his multiple trysts with maids, laundresses and other female servant folk. Once a woman had picked his fancy, whether willingly or unwillingly, she ended up in his arms. Some of those simple girls were happy to sample nobility, yet for many, Lord Percy's attentions were nothing but the cause of ruination. In the heat of his lust and arrogance, he heard no pleas; he thought nothing of simply taking what he wanted. Tonight, he had probably followed the poor woman into a dark corridor to have his way with her.

"There now, hush," Lord Percy cajoled his prey. "I am no thief. I need but one thing from you and if you struggle less, you might even enjoy it."

The woman thrashed madly, trying to free herself.

"Stay still, girl!" Henry Percy snapped.

Still pinning her to the wall with his weight and one hand over her mouth, he reached with the other to lift her skirts. As he became distracted, his hand covering her mouth must have slackened. With effort, the woman shook it off.

"Unhand me!" she pleaded desperately.

Walsingham's jaw clenched as he recognized her voice. Unrecognizable as it was, sobbing and hysterical, this voice could belong to no one else but Victoria. Having once escaped Lord Percy, she was now caught again. A small, delicate girl, she had not the strength to fight that great brute who was now feeling her legs.

"You must feel honored," Lord Percy said, "for you are to be my conquest for this evening. How else would you find a man of such high birth who is willing to have you?"

"I b-beg of you," Victoria beseeched, her voice weakening as her strength diminished. "Unhand me… Please… Let me be…"

"Anything but that," Lord Percy sneered. "When a man grows hard, there is but one way to remedy it. Have you no wish to help me?"

Anger, blazing hot, slowly rose in Walsingham. Always in control of his temper, Sir Francis rarely experienced emotions so powerful. But now his wrath was of such intensity, his eyes shone like coals in the dark. How dare this swine behave this way with a woman, and, more importantly, _how dare he touch something of his_?

"I do not believe she does," the spymaster spoke quietly, emerging into the light. Despite his anger, he looked as calm as ever.

Such was the fear his persona instilled into the hearts of even the nobles of the highest order that Lord Percy's grip loosened immediately as he whirled around to stare at Walsingham. Victoria, who was probably on the verge of fainting, slid limply to the floor.

"What is it to you, Walsingham?" Lord Percy needed but a moment to regain his conceit. "Does my fondness of skirt constitute treason?"

"Not at all," Walsingham replied with icy pleasantness, "but your conduct with this poor woman is hardly suitable for a man in your position. Had she consented to be treated in such manner?"

"I need no consent from her," Henry Percy barked.

"If I may ask, why is that?" Walsingham asked. He stole a look at Victoria who was now sobbing quietly against the wall.

"She is no innocent child, Walsingham," Percy spat. "At her age, only whores remain unwed and I shall treat a whore any way I please. She should be grateful that my choice befell her in the first place, for who else would have her?"

"Do you have proof of what you speak?" Walsingham inquired, making his way toward Victoria.

"No proof is needed," Henry Percy replied. "It is as plain as day."

Victoria gave a great sob. Curled into a tiny ball on the cold stone floor, she sat against the wall. Having been raped nightly by her uncle, she must have come to regard it as the worst of her nightmares. Now, threatened with similar treatment, she fell to pieces in no time at all. Walsingham had seen enough women in her state during his interrogations to know that the poor girl was unquestionably hysterical. Her face hidden in her hands, Victoria was probably unable to notice what was going on around her as she sobbed in fear and shame. Such dejected condition could not help but to inspire pity.

Looking at the crying woman, Walsingham understood. This would never stop. Lady York had not a drop of strength about her, at least not of the strength that makes one feared or respected. To her good fortune, he happened to be passing by and rescue her to from being forcibly taken by yet another man. What of the next time? And the time after that? She was not known and had no voice; anyone could do her harm without fearing the consequences.

He, on the other hand, was very well known and much feared. If he were to put his name next to hers, no one would dare lay a finger on her. If Walsingham were to publicly declare her as his mistress, it would protect her wherever she went. He had little taste for such obligations, of course, but how cold he do any less for her? Since Sir Francis had accepted her, Victoria had shown him nothing but submission and loyalty. She had little to give, yet she gave it all to him, trying to both relieve him in his sickness and aid him in his pleasure. Was the deal between them not mutually obliging? Certainly, Victoria had not ever demanded a thing from him, yet his conscience told him that he was in some way responsible for her. As a gentleman of noble birth, it was his duty to protect a woman in distress and he knew exactly what needed to be done.

"It is always prudent to seek proof before undertaking action," Walsingham said, laying a gentle hand on Victoria's shoulder.

She lifted her tearstained face to look at him. Still in much distress, she looked so pitiably lost. Walsingham gave her an encouraging nod, offering her a hand. The woman grabbed onto it and he pulled her up.

"Are you quite all right, my dear?" he asked gently, but still loudly enough for Henry Percy to hear.

"I b-believe so," Victoria stammered.

"My poor Victoria," Sir Francis continued. "He gave you such a fright, did he not?"

The woman gave a tiny nod in reply.

It was a particularly satisfying to see comprehension dawn slowly on Henry Percy's face. Walsingham pointedly ignored the man, keeping his attention on Victoria.

"My dear child, you look a mess," Sir Francis continued, extracting a snow-white handkerchief from his sleeve and handing it to Victoria.

"I think it would be best if you retired to my chambers," Walsingham continued, smoothing her disheveled coif. "I shall join you in a minute. May I say that I have been quite looking forward to spending the evening in your company."

Having said this, Walsingham tilted her head up to look into her tearstained eyes. Victoria's eyes were bloodshot and wet, a pearl of a tear still clinging to the lashes of her left eye. Although she had ceased her crying, he could see clearly that she was still in considerable shock. Her body was quaking with shallow uneven breath. She looked much like a wild hare, chased into a corner by several riled hounds.

Giving her a reassuring grin, Walsingham pressed his lips against hers in a gentle kiss. He made it both long and indulgent enough to make sure the message had been delivered.

"Off you go now," Walsingham said, pulling away.

Victoria needed not be asked twice. She fled the scene promptly, only just keeping herself from breaking into a run.

Once alone, Walsingham had turned to face Henry Percy yet again.

"As you have seen quite plainly, Lord Percy," the spymaster stated calmly, "you have been mistaken in your assumption."

The face of the younger man was rapidly flooding with green beneath his well-groomed blonde mustache and beard. For a man of such imposing stature, he had quite a weak stomach for danger.

"I trust that the next time you shall reserve judgment until you find some profound evidence to support it," Walsingham continued. "It is not in my character to dispense empty advice, Lord Percy. For your own sake, I hope you heed my words. Otherwise, I shall be forced to make some accusations of my own. It is up to you to decide whether or not you desire to be on its receiving end."

Awarding the dumbstruck Henry Percy one last warning flash of his eyes, Walsingham followed Victoria.

**~o~O~o~**

Despite her distressed condition, Victoria obeyed his order to the letter. When Walsingham entered his quarters, he had found her sitting on the bench next to the door. It must have been as far as her feet were able to carry her. Lady York was crying once more, her face buried in a handkerchief Walsingham gave her earlier. Sir Francis could see Jerome eye her wearily from his corner.

"My dear, please stop your crying," Sir Francis addressed her gently, "the danger has passed. I can give you my personal assurance that is the last time someone subjects you to such treatment."

As well as he understood the state she was in, Walsingham was still unprepared for what came next. Victoria fell to her knees in front of him, sobbing harder than ever.

"F-forgive me," she choked, wringing her hands beseechingly, "it was not the fault of mine… I did not… It was him… Oh, please forgive me… I beg of you…"

"My Lady, what is the meaning of this?" Walsingham asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Please, forgive me," Victoria continued as though she had not heard him, "It was him… It was him…I did not…"

Hiding her face in her hands once more, she cried dismally at his feet. Feeling increasingly ill at ease, Walsingham nonetheless promptly collected the woman from the floor. As little desire he had for it, he was quite astute in female nature and knew well what to do. He pulled Victoria into his embrace and, setting them down on the bench, Walsingham let her cry against his chest. Sir Francis did it against his better judgment, fearing that if not remedied, she would only cry longer, which he simply could not have. It seemed that whatever he may say, he would simply be wasting his breath until she calmed. Quietly, Jerome retreated from the entrance hall, letting his master deal with this predicament on his own.

For good five minutes, Victoria cried in Walsingham's arms. No intelligible words escaped her, rather than the repeated "I did not" and muffled pleas for forgiveness. Uneasily, Walsingham patted her on the back. Second to none when it came to the dalliances in the bedchamber, where no profound sentiments were involved, Walsingham found himself most unwilling when it came to facing a raw female emotion. While he gradually came to understand the source of her despair, he found her sobs somewhat disquieting. Remaining always untroubled deep within, Sir Francis felt himself discomforted to find a tiny ripple on the usually glassy-smooth surface of his emotions.

No doubt, Henry Percy had scared her witless. Yet what scared her even more was the fact that it was him who had come to her rescue. His warnings of dire consequences in case of her infidelity melted peculiarly in her distraught mind with the lewd nature of the attack. As was evident from her pleas, she was panicked that he deemed her caught in the act. It was, of course, a blatant insult to his intelligence, but Sir Francis saw that she was not in any condition to reason. As Sir Francis held Victoria close, the oddest question appeared somewhere one the edge of his mind: was she more afraid to lose her life or his good graces? Annoyed at such unexpectedly frivolous prancing of his mind, Walsingham promptly chased the question away.

"Please, calm yourself, child," Sir Francis said gently, once he felt as though he could stand no more sobbing, "you have no reason to fear."

"But how?" Victoria cried, yet the words she spoke were a great deal more comprehensible than before. "I thought that you would surely think –"

"I did not," Sir Francis said. "Please, stop your crying, dear. You are blameless in my eyes."

"But w-what you saw –" Victoria said again, tearing herself from him and wiping her eyes shakily. Walsingham noted that the handkerchief in her hands was considerably wet.

"There are instances when a woman goes to a man willingly," Walsingham interrupted her again, "and there are instances when she is forced. Be so kind as to grant me enough sense to discern between the two."

Sniffling, Victoria dabbed her eyes once again.

"I am sorry I –" she began.

"If you do not mind, child," Sir Francis cut her off softly, "I had heard enough apologies from you to last me two lifetimes. It is quite a considerable amount, particularly noting the fact that you have done no wrong."

As Victoria still struggled to pacify her emotions, Walsingham called for Jerome, ordering the boy to come fetch the basket of yarn Victoria had dropped in the corridor. The spymaster could swear he saw an expression of relief on the boy's face as he hurried off. Privately, a part of Walsingham envied the boy, who had left him alone to deal with the distraught woman.

However, when Walsingham once more directed his attention at her, Victoria was visibly changed. She no longer cried, hurriedly drying her face of every last remnant of moisture.

"Tell me, my dear girl," Walsingham asked, gently pushing a strand of hair out of her face, "how does trouble always manage to find you?"

"I know not," Victoria shook her head, her voice still rather shaky. "Tonight, I had done nothing at all that could be counted out of the ordinary. I needed to complete a shawl that her Majesty requested of Lady Myles, and I decided to take the yarn to my quarters. I always use that corridor; it is a shortcut, you see. With the corner of my eye, I saw him laughing at the jesters as I passed through one of the great halls; his cloak is hard to miss. He must have followed me… I had not heard a sound before he grabbed me from behind. It happened so fast, I hardly knew what to do… If you had not come, I fear to even think what would have happened…"

"It was indeed your luck I was nearby," Walsingham replied, stroking her hair. He liked her company a great deal more once she had stopped her tears.

"It is the second time my good fortune has stopped him from taking me," Victoria said darkly, "upon the third attempt, I fear luck might at last change sides."

"There will be nothing of the sort," Walsingham assured her firmly, "not after the display we held for his benefit."

"A display?" Victoria furrowed a puzzled brow.

"When I kissed you in the corridor," the spymaster explained, "I had made it quite plain for him that a woman he had a misfortune to offend belongs to me. Just in case his noble skull was too thick for subtleties, I have also warned him to keep away, otherwise I shall be forced to investigate his person with a disastrous result."

"Do you know him to be guilty, my Lord?" Victoria asked.

"Near every courtier is guilty of something," Walsingham shrugged, "either directly or by association. I had no need to take note of the great popinjay until now, yet I am sure his conscience is far from clean. It must be true, otherwise why would he turn toad-colored at my words? I must say, it looked rather fetching on him."

At this, Victoria smiled.

"I have no doubt that he shall pass the news around," Walsingham continued, pleased with the result of his speech, "and the rumors he shall inspire, however unkind they might seem, shall turn to your protection. I am afraid that from now on you must part with the air of virtuousness. Once everyone knows you share my bed, it will be impossible to keep claming purity."

"I find it marvelous that you can expect for so many things come to pass as the result of a single action," Victoria said.

"One well-practiced in the art of intrigue," Walsingham said, leaning back against the burgundy velvet of a tapestry, "should think many steps ahead. One needs to be certain of all the possible outcomes before the game begins."

"I must confess," Victoria spoke coyly, "I find it hard to comprehend."

"Shall an example aid your understanding?" Sir Francis smiled crookedly.

"It might, Your Grace," Victoria replied.

"Very well," Sir Francis said leisurely. "For instance, let us take your uncle." Victoria shuddered at the memory, yet she continued to listen. "What do you think was the reason he chose to make your shame known?" Walsingham asked.

Victoria shook her head sadly.

"May I venture a guess?" Walsingham lifted an eyebrow lightly.

Victoria nodded in agreement.

"From what little I know of him, it is quite clear that his motives were in no way personal," Walsingham said. "He was but a limited egoist, supremely unconcerned for anyone else. Such coldness tends to go both ways. It is my belief that he neither cared for you, nor wished to cause you harm. The only thing he did care for was your inheritance. Now, if I were to look in your father's will, I am quite sure I would find a clause that stated that the child had to be of a certain age, let us venture sixteen or so, before the ownership of the lands and moneys were to pass to her. Such stipulations are quite commonplace. However, if she were to marry, regardless of her age, her inheritance was to become her dowry and the property of the husband."

Victoria looked up, understanding.

"The reason he disclosed your damaged state," Sir Francis said, "was to keep you from marrying and thus depriving him from the property he became so attached to. It is hard to say whether he had planned to do so from very beginning, yet he certainly managed to use the situation to his advantage."

"But how did he intend on keeping it?" Victoria asked, frowning. "I was twenty years of age when I left his house. He never said a word of something that was due to me."

"Why would he?" Sir Francis said. "His ward was but a meek, gentle girl, who knew nothing of her rights. You never asked, and he never told you. That is what an intrigue takes: to say one thing and to mean another, to omit the truth and deal in lies. While you might have no taste for it, you still need to be aware, if it is your intention to survive at court."

"What choice have I? I have no other place to go," Victoria whispered miserably.

"Nor does the doe in the forest," Walsingham replied. "It is, after all, her only home. While she might never resort to brute force to protect herself from the hunters, if she becomes learned in their ways, she is less likely to meet her end at their hands. Do you understand me, child?"

"I do, my Lord," Victoria replied quietly. "Thank you."

"It is quite unnecessary to thank me for it," Sir Francis said gently. "Since I took it upon myself to teach you, I might as well instruct you in more than one way."

"May I at least thank you for rescuing me?" Victoria continued.

"Again, quite unneeded," Sir Francis said with a small smile. "Merely because all the other men at this court have forgotten how to treat a woman, means not that I should as well. Chivalry is a requirement for a nobleman, not something he might opt to have or be rid of."

His smile widened as he saw Victoria furrow a puzzled brow. Yet he forgot how quickly this girl began to cotton on as of late. Her gentle hand found its way into his hair. With a smile, Lady York stroked his curly tresses. Walsingham felt her move closer to him as she pressed her body against him.

"What do you intend to do, my dear?" Walsingham asked.

Victoria looked up at him. For the first time, he saw her eyes blaze in the darkness. Whatever she felt for him, was now too great to conceal.

"I intend on thanking my rescuer," she whispered, "in the only way he would have my gratitude."

"I see," Sir Francis lifted his eyebrows. "What is it you have in mind?"

Victoria did not answer as she reached to kiss him.

**~o~**


	9. Chapter 9

**~o~**

A needle broke through the surface of whitest cotton, a thread of crimson silk hot on its heels. It flew high in the air to then plunge headfirst into the fabric to complete yet another stitch.

Furrowing her brow, Victoria straightened in her seat as she examined her work. Massaging her stiffened neck, she observed a trail of berried holly leaves stretching on for nearly two yards of cotton cloth, just along the hem. When complete, this very fabric would be used to dry Her Majesty's body after the royal bath. Only an inch or two remained incomplete. Critically, Victoria eyed the thread, which was unmistakably too short.

"Ann, dear, could you –," Victoria spoke, raising her hand without looking up. She cut herself off as she remembered that, as of late, she sat alone. By force of habit, Victoria called out to one of the women that once sat beside her.

On the other end of the room, where all the other seamstresses sat together in a somewhat defensive formation, the maiden Victoria had called out to raised her head from her sewing at the sound of her name. For a split moment, Ann's almond-shaped, black eyes surveyed Victoria with fear and contempt before their owner returned to her work. Whispers broke out among the group, several women not even caring to lower their voices.

Heaving a deep sigh, Victoria moved her embroidery frame aside and got up to fetch the box of silks. As she approached the group, the murmur died out. All work abandoned, the women stared at her.

"Will you be using that, Beth?" Victoria asked, pointing at the spool of red silken thread within the box. From the very day the world had turned on her once again, she swore to herself that, come what may, she should remain unchanged in her dealings with others as though nothing had ever gone amiss.

Victoria had made this promise the very next day after Lord Percy had cornered her in the corridor. She awoke by His Grace's side to find her circumstances much changed. As Walsingham had expected, the news of his new mistress had spread like fire, since it was most unusual for the spymaster to grant the benefit of his company to one single woman. However, what Sir Francis did not expect or, better to say, had expected but had not disclosed, was that Lord Percy was not the only one who now dreaded to cross Victoria's path. It was true that Lady York was now respected, as her nightly duties in Walsingham's chamber instantly gave her formerly-invisible figure a shadow of importance. Yet, with importance came fear. Dozens of eyes followed Victoria as she went about her duties, guessing aloud and in the privacy of their thoughts, just what to expect of the spymaster's new plaything.

On that very same day, she found herself sitting alone in the sewing quarters, the rest of the girls huddled as far away from her as the room allowed. Those women, who had before laughed and jested with her, were now buzzing among themselves much like an upset beehive. Without even straining her hearing, Victoria had heard herself being given quite a few unflattering epithets, among which 'Walsingham's whore' was the gentlest by far. Deciding that she had had enough, Lady York from then on resorted to humming the many old village tunes she knew each time she stitched, trying her best to drown out the verbal barrage.

Weeks passed, one after the other, at last bringing some relief. Victoria was no longer looked upon as though a wolf in the midst of sheep. New court scandals had soon overshadowed the rise of her star. Nonetheless, people shunned her in distrust, knowing not what to make of her. Contempt, thinned out to some degree by curiosity, continued to follow Victoria wherever she went.

It was exactly the blend of sentiments Victoria saw as Beth raised her eyes in response to her inquiry.

"No," Beth said laconically, both afraid and unwilling to give a lengthier answer.

All eyes were upon Victoria as she picked up the spool.

"Thank you," she said quietly, giving Beth a small smile that the other woman did not return. As soon as Victoria had returned to her seat, the buzz broke out once more.

A sigh, one tiny sigh, was all Victoria did to vent her frustration. Flawlessly, she slipped the tip of the thread through the eye of the needle. From the very first stitch and the very first note of an old Scottish ballad, Victoria began to stitch again, fully absorbed in her work. The whispers of the women were no longer of any consequence, or at least that was what Victoria was trying strenuously to convince herself of. The sound of their hushed voices was like the rustling of falling autumn leaves: ever-present, yet of no significance.

Therefore, an abrupt onset of silence at once drew Victoria's attention back to the women. They sat silent, all their eyes turned in the direction of the entrance corridor. Victoria needed not have looked to know what had prompted them to do so, for this had happened many times before. Jerome, looking even lankier in his dark livery, stood still in the archway, waiting to catch her gaze. Before the affair had come into the open, His Grace took care to send a different servant each time in order to fetch her. Now, however, secrecy was no longer needed. Jerome, who was at his fingertips every minute of the day, was sent to inform Lady Victoria every time Walsingham desired her presence.

When Victoria's eyes were upon him, the youth bowed solemnly. With a small nod, Victoria had acknowledged that the message has been received. Jerome bowed once more and melted into the darkness of the corridor.

All attention drawn back to her once more, Victoria hurriedly folded her work and tucked it into her basket. She realized that a flush was climbing up her cheekbones for everyone to see, a flush that had nothing to do with shame. The loss of her good name meant nothing to her, compared to the pleasure of belonging to the one and only man she ever loved. As hopelessly as a lone cricket might adore a star in the heavens, she had come to hopelessly adore the man who had just summoned her.

Victoria rose from her seat, smoothing her dress. Without awarding the other seamstresses as much as a look, she crossed the room and followed Jerome. Just as she had left, the chorus of whispers erupted once more…

**~o~O~o~**

Heavy oak doors creaked as the servant in livery, identical to the one of Jerome's, had opened them to admit the female caller. After the bright gallery, flooded with capricious February sun, the entrance hall seemed pitch-dark. The man bowed Victoria inside.

Victoria had walked through this hall many a time, therefore she needed no guide to find her bearings. The servant led her on, the solitary ball of light atop his stubby candle sliding along the gilded frames of paintings, dove into the rich embroidery of tapestries and outlined the edges of ornate, expensive furniture.

Slight movement, behind the partition to the left, announced that Jerome had returned his post. For such a young lad, Victoria noted, he was surprisingly unwavering. He had never once failed to present himself when he was summoned by Walsingham, nor had he blundered while executing his duties. Merciful to his servants, Sir Francis allowed the lad sufficient leave, yet he demanded Jerome's full dedication while the boy was on duty. Walsingham had trained him well: Jerome would rather allow himself to be killed than betray the trust of his master. With time, Victoria came to suspect that there was much more to Jerome's devotion than fear or a dogged desire to oblige. Every time Jerome kissed Walsingham's delicate hand, a gesture of gratitude the boy performed in response to his master's benevolent treatment, his eyes shone with reverence, which, at closer assessment, suspiciously resembled filial attachment. A homeless pickpocket who had barely known his parents, he had come to regard his fearsome master as somewhat of a father. Truly, Walsingham had a way of endearing himself to those he wished… A prayer, spoken softly in French, had issued from behind the screen, followed by a clink of silver against china, announcing that Jerome was about to placate his hunger with the remnants of his master's meal.

A few more steps and the corridor had ended, opening into the large sitting room with the familiar grand fireplace. Just as when Victoria had first entered the spymaster's quarters, a handsome fire roared within it, providing warmth, as well as light. A large oak table stood slightly to the left, adorned with several candelabra. Sir Francis leaned against the table, reading a document in the shimmering candlelight.

Walsingham was still wearing his robes of state, yet they hung unfastened, revealing a black doublet and breeches of raw silk. He raised his eyes as the servant, who had ushered Victoria in, bowed to him and retreated back into the corridor. Following suit, Victoria curtsied, her head bowed low in submission.

Sir Francis nodded with a small grin, acknowledging her greeting all the while he rolled up the scroll he was reading and tucked it safely away into a small silver chest standing beside him on the tabletop.

"My Lord," Victoria whispered, understanding that now, when the official document was out of sight, she was allowed to approach Walsingham. She took up his bejeweled hand and brought it gently to her lips. This was yet another gesture of submission on her part, as well as an expression of tenderness.

"Victoria, my child," Walsingham replied, his smile widening, "I trust you are well?"

"Yes, my Lord," Victoria replied.

"You will forgive me for interrupting you, dear?" Sir Francis continued. "A whim on my part, I admit."

"Is it not my function to indulge your whims, Your Grace?" Victoria asked.

"Quite right," Walsingham laughed. Victoria smiled demurely in return.

"I fancied a distraction from my labors," he continued. "Can you think of any way it could come to pass?" As he spoke, Sir Francis freed his hand from her grasp and was now running his elegant fingers against Victoria's cheek.

"You Grace need only to lead and I shall follow," Victoria spoke in reply.

She had no idea, Walsingham thought, she was far too innocent to even conceive of what he had in mind. The main gate to her temple of Venus was already irrevocably his, however the spymaster would not yet consider this victory complete. Two more entrances remained untouched by him, and sooner or later he planned to lay claim to them as well. He did not wish to rush this, not at all; once he had plundered a woman's body as fully as the Greeks had once plundered the city of Troy, he would have to dispose of her. Walsingham refrained from corrupting her completely as of yet, denying himself two other pleasures her body could offer. He knew full well, if he were to order, she would comply without a word. Yet, once he would allow himself the indulgence, she would loose his respect and his interest. There were too few women at court who the spymaster still held in high regard, and he wished not to decrease their number so rashly.

Holding her by the chin, Sir Francis pulled her to him. As he kissed her, he could feel her lips, obediently soft and parted, quiver with rising want. Her arms wrapped around his waist in an instant as she answered him. Victoria's demeanor exposed her, clearly stating that, as submissive as she was, she had not thought of answering his calls as a mere duty. He cared little for it, as he simply did not believe in existence of what she felt for him. For Walsingham, love had long since become a myth, carefully and rationally considered and dismissed. Her youthful infatuation, as he termed it, served him well, for a person under its spell was much more responsive and eager to please.

Depending on time of the day, as well as His Grace's mood, their trysts varied greatly. At night, it was obviously most convenient for Walsingham to adjourn to bed and invite his young paramour to join him. Daily, however, it was not at all fitting; Sir Francis had much, too much, to do to roll in bed. If he happened to desire Victoria's presence, he wished for something more expeditious. For such an imaginative mind as Walsingham happened to possess, the sitting room held unlimited potential.

For instance, the big oak table he currently leaned against looked as though it stood there expressly for such an occasion. Breaking the kiss, Walsingham changed his position. Stepping behind Victoria, he gently pushed her onto the tabletop, face down. His heartbeat quickening due to excitement purely carnal, Sir Francis lifted her skirts. Out of the thick foam of petticoats appeared the woman's firm round bottom, clad in a pair of short delicate pantalettes.

Usually far too preoccupied at this point to pay attention to the undergarments, Walsingham nonetheless paused for a moment, for he had never seen that particular pair before. This piece was fashioned out of crisp white cotton, adorned with frothy lace and held up by ribbons of innocent blue, both at the belt and around each leg. The pantalettes were obviously new and they were not cheap either. Apparently, Victoria thought it important to go out of her way to impress him. Scoffing lightly, Sir Francis ran his hands around her waist, locating a bow with the aid of which the garment was fastened. Once the bow was done away with, one of his palms slipped underneath, gently stroking the bottom of Victoria's stomach, while the other pulled the pantalettes out of the way, baring Victoria's posterior.

Despite the fact that the young woman lacked stature for such an exercise, the height of the table provided the necessary adjustment. Tenderly stroking Victoria's creamy skin, Sir Francis observed the girl. She lay on the table in the same position as before. Her body heaved with rapid breath, restricted by the dress. Her hips trembled as Walsingham's finger ran, torturously slow, along the narrow opening. Mindful of the fact that he had still much work to be getting on with, Sir Francis decided to waste no more time. His one hand still upon her hip, he untied the laces of his codpiece…

A whimper, full of longing, escaped Victoria's lips as she felt him steer his vessel into port. Grabbing ahold of her alabaster hips, Sir Francis delivered the first thrust. Her inexperience was definitely to an advantage. Were she in any way different, pleasing her would have been a much harder task. Contrary to the fashions of the present age, Walsingham supposed that pleasing a woman had a definite part in a man's pleasure as well. Mindless swiving was beneath him. For such an experienced debauchee, copulation was as much for the satisfaction of the ego and perfecting the craft as it was for gratification. Where the perfection of craft was concerned, this girl was not much help, for she easily gave in without a fight as she was simply no match for him. As the result, his ego had to go without, since how could he take pride in such an easy conquest?

Yet it would be a lie to say that her reaction was completely of no consequence. She was of humble standing, but it did not diminish the fact that she was both young and quite easy to look at; therefore, it provided him with a twinge of delight as he heard her moans grow loud. Also, it would not have been fair to omit the physical benefits of such encounters. Spymaster's duties were both many in number and greatly demanding; a lesser man would have long since buckled under their collective weight. Nevertheless, from time to time, even such a titan of a man was beginning to feel the burden of the state upon him. If that was the case, a goblet of his favorite wine or Victoria's brief visit, or even a short retreat to his Devon estate, where he would disappear for days as he hunted with his dogs and falcons, was just the thing to restore his strength…

Ten minutes was all Walsingham needed when he wished to be expeditious. Victoria's last cry and rapid convulsions of her body around his told him that his student had once again failed to surpass her master. He did not judge her harshly, for he had yet to find a woman, or even a man, that ever could. As she panted, desperately trying to catch her breath, Sir Francis allowed himself to give in. A single breath, expired slowly through his slightly parted lips, was all that betrayed his reaction. As quiet as it was, it was definitely heard, serving Victoria as a permission to rise. After doing so, she remained with her back to him, wholly due to her natural bashfulness, rather than due to his demands, as Sir Francis performed necessary adjustments to his outfit.

"Thank you, dear," Walsingham murmured, his lips briefly connecting with the flushed skin of her neck, "your visit is much appreciated."

Releasing her with another kiss, Sir Francis turned and made his exit, leaving Victoria alone to remedy her markedly windswept appearance…

**~o~O~o~**

Once again, the snow was beating against the firmly barred windows. Whistling in fury, the wind threw about the frozen powder. Despite its anger, it understood that its reign was near over. February, the last month of winter, had just begun, with spring to follow immediately after. The wind's anger was mighty, yet could not dispute the natural order of things, a fact that must have enraged it even further.

Like many nights before, the wee small hours of the morning found Lord Walsingham in his bedchamber with Victoria curled up by his side. If their meeting the day before was brief and completely to his advantage, tonight he chose to invite Victoria, still for his own pleasure, but for her sake as well. Sir Francis was in a good mood, as all his plans fell smoothly into place thus far. To compensate for her unwavering compliance, he chose some nights to indulge her. Tonight, as he delivered his payment, he was gentle and slow, allowing her a powerful, prolonged release, something she was denied as of late…

Walsingham lay staring into the fire, his mind once again back on Scottish affairs. The old, noble blood was boiling hotter and hotter in the veins of the kingdom, as the landed gentry grew further displeased with actions of their Queen. Walsingham's men had done well, dripping poison drop by drop into the ears of the powerful, orchestrating the madness while remaining unseen.

Yes, he put much effort into this. Long before he inquired for royal permission, Walsingham had watched the situation carefully, guiding it through his instructions. Yes, his labors had already bore a fruit as Mary of Scotts had already been forced to abdicate the throne in favor of her small son, James. Yet the spymaster desired more. History held enough examples of mothers ruling from beside their sons' thrones. To remove this dangerous competitor completely, Walsingham desired her imprisonment, and than perhaps more: her full and complete removal from the scene. Patiently, he observed as all the pieces moved across the board in preparation for checkmate. One queen's defeat meant triumph for the other. As the most skilled chess master, Walsingham would make certain that the queen triumphant was his…

Victoria's loose locks tickling his bare chest distracted him from his thoughts. Turning his head lightly, he saw Victoria with her head laid on his chest and her eyes closed, her ear pressed to his skin. A small, barely discernable smile played on her lips.

"Victoria, dear," Walsingham asked, "might I inquire of what is it are you doing?"

The woman's eyes opened slowly.

"Does Your Grace find my actions discomforting?" Victoria asked worriedly.

"Not in the slightest, my child," the spymaster replied, "yet I would very much like to find a purpose behind your actions."

"If Your Grace wishes me to be honest –," she said, blushing.

"I do," Sir Francis said, running his hand though her hair.

"I am listening to your heart, my Lord," she whispered, blushing still further. She realized how unusual her confession must have sounded to his ears.

Walsingham lifted his eyebrows at her answer.

"Not once in all of my fifty years," he said slowly, "have I heard of such a pastime. Does it please you?" he asked after a pause.

"Very much so," Victoria admitted.

"Would you care to explain yourself, my dear?" Sir Francis requested. "Perhaps, should you provide an elucidation, I shall find it enjoyable as well," he added in jest.

"I shall try," Victoria agreed modestly. She looked away, apparently contemplating the response. A minute or so had passed in silence.

"I am listening," Sir Francis smiled, stroking her hair once more.

"The beating of the heart indicates life, does it not?" she began somewhat timidly. The fact that she was about to reveal her mind to someone of such education and wit unnerved her a great deal.

"As far as I am aware," Walsingham replied.

"If it so, can the said beating not be called a music of life and as such, can it not be pleasant to hear?" Victoria continued, a touch more confident this time. Seeing that he did not seek to dispute her, infused her with her a touch more confidence.

"I suppose," the spymaster said.

"This music is an integral part of life," Victoria said, "in death, it is conspicuous by its absence. When two friends meet, when a mother welcomes a child, when husband and wife share an embrace, their bosoms are brought close, so their hearts can beat in unison. It grows either louder or fainter, depending on the turns one's destiny takes. This music is so important, yet almost no one cares to listen to it."

Walsingham raised an eyebrow at Victoria's speech.

"You are a poet, dear," he said finally, "has anyone ever told you that?"

"No, my Lord," Victoria replied, perplexed, "never."

"Take care, child, for poets rarely prosper," the spymaster mused. "Their minds are too far up in the ethereal realm to care for what happens around them. Life punishes them for ignoring the ways of the world by stripping them of all they ever held dear upon the mortal coil. So, when they do come back down, they find they have nothing to go back to."

"I do agree, my Lord," Victoria said after a pause, "yet I think that it is not in one's power to choose. One mind is like a feather of a dove, it simply can not resist when a gust of wind takes it skyward. On the other hand, a mind of a different make is as though a pebble stone. However hard it might try to rise, it always falls to the ground in the end. It is not a choice one makes, it is a provision one must learn to live with."

Walsingham laughed. It was interesting to see the way this woman's character unfolded as she grew accustomed to his presence. When they first met, she was afraid to stir or utter a sound without his permission; now, she grew bold enough to give him the benefit of her thoughts.

"Are my words not to your liking, Your Grace?" Lady York asked, her question falling in perfect line with his musings. A moment ago, she had forgotten herself and now she worried that she had overstepped her boundaries.

"Do not fret, child," Walsingham laughed, "I do not intend on punishing you for speaking your mind. On the contrary, I found your notions amusing. In my day, I had the benefit of many poets' association, yet never before have I had the chance to bed one."

Victoria smiled at his jest, her eyes shimmering adoringly. As though a kitten, she grew calmer with every stroke of his palm, as he resumed his ministrations. The room was warm and homely, while the bed that bore them – soft and inviting. The spymaster's eyelids fluttered close.

"Shall you think of more engaging metaphors, dear," he murmured, "would you be so kind as to inform me?"

"I most definitely shall," Victoria replied.

The last thing Walsingham saw before falling asleep was Victoria, who had returned to her peculiar engagement, a smile back on her lips.

**~o~O~o~**

Even though their night ran late, Walsingham was surprised to a degree that he had failed to awaken at dawn as per his usual habit. While such waste of his valuable time was regrettable, he felt no worry when he realized that it was well past seven o'clock. Sir Francis reported to no one but the Queen herself. Unless she issued summons, he was free to present himself to Her Majesty at any given time.

Victoria, on the other hand, had daily obligations that could not be ignored. Unlike him, she could not at all afford the luxury to sleep in. Her breath calm and deep, she slumbered, peaceful and unawares.

Sir Francis was privy to the fact that his young mistress had grown unpopular with her superiors due to constant interruptions of her daily work. For this he was the one responsible. Taking this into consideration, Walsingham did not wish to escalate the tension further still by allowing Victoria to be late for her duties.

Cupping her face with his hand, he woke her with a kiss. Victoria's reply came slow and sleepy, as the touch of his lips brought her out of the realm of Morpheus.

"Never have you before," Victoria murmured as they broke apart, "given me the privilege of such awakening, my Lord."

"The purpose behind my actions is quite plain," Walsingham spoke, "to make up for the grave news I bear. My dear, I fear that we have slept past our appropriate time."

It took a few moments for his words to reach her consciousness, as she was still half asleep. Her eyes grew wide in panic as she clapped her palm to her mouth.

"Oh, no," she whispered. "Your Grace must excuse me," she begged, "but I need to leave."

"You are excused, dear," Walsingham said graciously, barely containing a smile.

Lady York rose with a start and nearly rolled out of bed in her haste to leave. Walsingham chortled noiselessly as he observed Victoria's frantic attempts to gather her garments, while desperately trying to keep herself covered by a bed sheet she wrapped around her. It is in such moments, the spymaster thought to himself, a man realizes that a young, mischievous boy he long ceased to be, still lives within him. The spymaster laughed with the kind of mirth a lad would snicker as he watched a girl shriek in panic at the sight of a toad he placed deliberately among her dolls.

For the boys, laughter comes easy, for the conscience is not yet fully present. They can get away with much mischief, while suffering little to no emotional distress that usualy follows a misdeed. Walsingham's laugh died away as he came to discover that he pitied her. A dutiful and dependant creature, Victoria must have never before been late or missed a day before she met him. Between satisfying his demands and the ones of Lady Myles, who relied heavily upon her craft, the poor girl must have been running herself ragged. Deciding that it would be uncharitable of him to remain idle, he rose as well and made his way towards Victoria, draping a robe about him as he went.

By the time Walsingham had entered the game, Victoria had managed to throw on her chemise and petticoats. With a glance full of gratitude and relief she turned away, allowing him to tend to her corset.

"I would make a decent handmaiden, do you not agree, dear?" Walsingham spoke as he tightened the laces.

"My Lord, you jest with me," Victoria said breathlessly.

She grabbed a dress off a chair's high back and pulled it on. This burgundy gown, its worn fabric embroidered scantly with a gold thread, laced at the back. As Victoria adjusted the front of the dress, Walsingham proceeded to lace the gown.

Just as his task was about finished, a loud ripping noise had torn suddenly through the room. Upon hearing it, Victoria gasped, stricken with terror. Too late had she realized that a dress made far too long ago, as well as for a woman of slighter endowment, would not tolerate the rush. Too late had Lady Victoria clapped a hand to her chest, trying to prevent what had already happened. Finally yielding to the width of Victoria's bosom and unable to bear being a strong male hand, the fabric tore at the front, splitting the bodice neatly in the middle. When Lady York finally gathered enough courage to look down, she found the rip, measuring a good foot in length, which ran from the corsage down.

Powerless to withstand the many misfortunes of this morning, Lady York heaved a defeated sigh.

"Lady Myles shall have my head this time for sure," she whispered, hopelessly shaking her head.

Having been a participant of this scene, Walsingham again found it most hard to contain his glee. Yet, seeing Victoria's reaction put the laughter out of his mind. What she said was true. While Lady Gloria Myles had her virtues, patience could hardly be found among them. It was not uncommon for her to berate one of her staff in front of the group of others, as well as occasionally strike the guilty.

"Do you wish me to speak with Lady Myles?" Walsingham asked. It was out of his character to stand idle while those loyal to him were in peril.

"No, my Lord," Victoria replied sadly with another sigh. "I will not have you advocating on my behalf."

"Think, child," Sir Francis insisted, "my interference could well stay your patron's wrath."

"I will not be the one who defiles your name by using it to shield me from responsibility," Victoria said quietly. "I shall get what I deserve. No more and no less. By your leave, my Lord," she turned and bowed lowly, requesting to be dismissed.

"You may go," Walsingham replied.

Victoria drew herself up and rushed off, her hands wrapped tightly about her chest to conceal the tear.

Alone, Walsingham shook his head. Blessed were the fools in whose hearts veracity still drew breath. Rare, they graced the earth, yet they should perish long before the wicked, for their very virtue would be stuff of their undoing…

**~o~O~o~**

That very evening, Sir Francis had summoned Victoria again. He had decided upon it quite late at night, having discovered that his restless mind had caused him yet another bout of insomnia. As the lack of rest, in due course, resulted in downturns of health, which Walsingham simply could not allow at time like this, he chose to, yet again, seek his infallible remedy. Also, he could not deny that was interested as to what had become of Lady York after they had parted ways on the morn.

In no more than ten minutes' time, his curiosity was amply satisfied. As Victoria stepped forth into the sitting room out of the dark corridor, Walsingham could plainly see her eyes, red underneath the puffy eyelids. No doubt, Jerome had interrupted her crying as he had knocked on her door. To the girl's credit, Walsingham noted that her look was otherwise above reproach. Victoria's turquoise dress, one of the two she still had left, if memory served him correctly, was arranged with an impeccable neatness. Not a hair was out if place in her coif, adorned with a simple white ribbon. A small golden cross that he had seen many times before was once more around her neck, accompanied by a pair of tiny pearl earrings.

"Did Lady Myles scold you?" Sir Francis asked after they exchanged greetings.

"She let me know that she disapproved of tardiness," Victoria replied, looking down.

"She put it harshly, I take it?" Walsingham continued.

"She was fair, my Lord," Victoria said, shaking her head, "the fault indeed was mine alone."

While saying just enough to avoid a lie, Victoria nonetheless refused to say any more, which would clearly implicate her employer. Walsingham did not need her to be overt to know that Lady Gloria Myles was never _just_ fair. The reprimands were delivered severely to the one at fault, frequently brought home by a hearty slap on a cheek to make sure the message sunk in well. Provided that today's misstep was not her first, Sir Francis would imagine Lady Myles was particularly keen on not only chastising Victoria, but also making an example of her.

"You need to learn, my dear," Walsingham said, laying down a quill he toyed with in his fingers, "to accept help when it is offered. My interference could have saved you from today's unpleasantries."

"The outcome would have been more agreeable," Victoria said, "yet it would not be just. I have done wrong and I was told off, just like any other maid in Lady Myles's charge. I see no injustice in that."

Walsingham saw that whatever he was to say, he would simply be wasting his breath. In any case, it hardly mattered now, since what was done could not be changed. Nonetheless, Sir Francis could see that even though Victoria advocated for justice, she hardly seemed happy after she had gotten her way. A weepy woman would not serve his purpose well tonight. After but a second, Walsingham knew what needed to be done.

"Come here, my Lady," Walsingham said quietly

As Victoria approached him, he took her hand and pulled her to sit on his lap. Sir Francis wrapped one hand firmly around her waist while the other brushed the curls off the nape of her neck. He felt Victoria sway slightly as his lips connected repeatedly with the delicate skin.

"Really, my dear," Walsingham declared suddenly, "I must protest."

"What, my Lord?" Victoria asked.

"The way you dress," Sir Francis replied.

Victoria looked herself over in puzzled fashion, before shifting her questioning look upon him again.

"I beg of Your Grace to tell me," Victoria said humbly, "which part of my attire causes your displeasure so I might correct it."

Walsingham glanced at her, his eyes veiled mysteriously.

"You would do this for me, child?" he asked with a tiny smile.

"Your Grace need only ask," Victoria replied decidedly.

Walsingham's grin widened. He took her hand and planted a gentle kiss upon her fingertips.

"Well then," he said, "if I am allowed such freedom, I shall certainly speak my mind. It indeed puzzles me so to see a young creature hide herself behind such amounts of fabric. Spanish collars, my dear, are only suited for the lined skin and withered breasts. Since you possess neither, what is the reason for you to wear such clothes?"

"My aim is to guard against unwanted male attention," Victoria replied quietly, "which is unfortunately plentiful at this court."

"As of recent," Walsingham said, "you have to fear it no more. Although I am honestly baffled by the fact that my mere presence tends to scare the piss out of most men," Walsingham laughed quietly at his own joke, "from time to time I tend to use it to my advantage. So, you need not worry about undesired attention. The attention you need to worry yourself with is my own, provided that you want it."

"Why would you ask me such a question if you already know the answer, my Lord?" Victoria inquired, grasping gently at his palm.

"It would never do to assume," Walsingham said. "Before any fact can be accepted as true, its validity must be established. Remember it well."

"Certainly, my Lord," Victoria bowed her head.

"Once I have established that it is indeed your wish to please me," Walsingham continued, "I shall voice my wish. It is my desire that you seek out a dressmaker at once and order yourself no less than nine new gowns."

Victoria's eyes opened wide.

"Nine gowns, my Lord?" she asked, turning to face him. "I have not the money to pay for such great a purchase!"

"Naturally, my dear," Sir Francis laughed, "if I am the one requesting such a change, I shall also be the one to pay for it."

"My Lord," Victoria gasped, looking at him pleadingly, "I humbly beg of you to reconsider! Without a doubt, this is one of the most generous offers ever extended to me, but not everyone shall see it this way. They shall say that I seek your company solely because of the gifts you bestow upon me."

"Reasonable," Walsingham said, pleased with her extrapolation. "However, while under my protection, you should not worry about idle talk. It is, no doubt, unpleasant and can not be avoided, yet it can do you no harm. As I said before, the only opinion you should care for is mine and I certainly will think less of you, shall you choose to refuse my gift."

Victoria lowered her head. In her modesty, she would have liked nothing better than to decline, yet he made it impossible for her to do so. He pulled her to him lightly, pecking her on a cheek flushed with such lovely shade of rouge. It was obvious that Victoria, despite her protests, was pleased with the gift. She was a woman after all, and which woman would not be pleased at a prospect of acquiring new dresses?

"And now to business," he said, pulling away. "As my only provision, I desire to see no more of those appalling Spanish collars that you favor so. I wish these ten gowns to be befitting a woman of your age and stature."

"Ten, my Lord?" Victoria raised her eyebrows amazedly. "I heard you say nine before, of that I am sure."

"Consider it a penalty for disagreeing with me, my Lady," Walsingham smiled crookedly. "Unless you wish for these ten to turn into eleven, I strongly suggest you acquiesce to my terms."

"What choice have I?" Victoria admitted with a smile.

"Indeed none," Walsingham smiled back. "If I can not teach you to accept favors, at least I shall teach you how to accept gifts. Now, if you would oblige me, child, let us retire. I give you my word, tonight I shall treat this gown much more kindly than I treated the other two that are no longer with us."

**~o~O~o~**

The morning ripened, slivers of gilded pink on the horizon proclaiming that the sun was to rise shortly. The squares of crimson light lay upon the floor as Victoria hurried towards her chambers. Thankfully, the palace was still near deserted, which allowed for a much less distressing passage. Only an old baker, with his dress and apron covered in flour, hurried by with his usual basket of pastries for the Queen's breakfast. The man turned his head and frowned as Victoria walked past him.

Quickly reaching her quarters, Victoria flung the door close behind her and leaned against it. With a sigh, she closed her eyes. As cramped and poorly furnished as her room was, it remained her only sanctuary. Here, no one would glare at her, whisper or point; here, she was alone, alone at last. Apart from being in the presence of her noble paramour, Victoria had come to regard the solitude of her room to be nearly as good.

Therefore, the young seamstress gave quite a start when rustling of silk intruded unexpectedly upon her thoughts. Her eyes snapped open only to find her dear friend, Lady Margaret Ashton, as she vacated the chair she had occupied all the while she must have waited for Victoria to return.

A tall, willowy young woman, as splendidly beautiful as a goddess, had very few competitors at court. With her soft skin of perfect shade, her huge emerald eyes that looked equally captivating whether they glimmered with delight or glowed with fury, her hair the color of wheat and her tiny waist, she was deemed as one of the most beautiful women of her time. Even though such women were commonly thought of as unintelligent or fickle, nothing could be further from the truth in this particular case. Lady Ashton possessed rare intelligence, as well as unfailing loyalty. Princes and dukes prostrated themselves at her feet, offering her all that they possessed for a single night in her company, yet she refused it all many times over for the sake of her husband.

Her friends also merited such fierce loyalty and therefore loved her beyond measure. There were not many, however, since Margaret's mind, sharp and perhaps overly critical at times, was quick to discern faults in most people that approached her. Since the friendship of Lady Ashton was so valuable a thing, those deserving of it, treasured it immensely. Victoria, who was her first and only friend who knew her from early childhood, had more reasons than the rest to love this haughty goddess, who played this part perfectly for the rest of the world, yet changed completely when they were together.

Therefore, upon seeing Margaret, Victoria's initial surprise melted into joy. With a cry of happiness, Victoria flew towards Lady Ashton, her hands open and ready to embrace her dear friend after the two weeks' separation. Unexpectedly, Margaret's palm few to Victoria's chest, barring her from coming any closer.

"You made me wait," Lady Ashton spoke curtly. Her tone was icy, as was her expression.

"I –," Victoria stammered, astounded by her friend's actions. "I – … I beg pardon. Have a heart, dearest, I did not expect you for a week… How could I have known of your return?"

"Her Majesty requested of my early coming," Margaret supplied stiffly. "Liam and I had to cut our travels short. What is the matter, Victoria, would you not offer me to sit?"

"But of course," Victoria said, baffled at Margaret's demeanor. Victoria had known of her friend's great capacity for showing both kindness and displeasure, yet it was the very first time she had found the latter directed at her. The icy formality of the conversation hinted at a serous infraction she must have committed against Margaret, yet as hard as she thought, Victoria could not find one.

Lady York sat on her bed gingerly as Margaret returned to the armchair. Her arms folded on her lap, Margaret looked away. Her profile looked no less beautiful, even with her furrowed brows and wrathfully trembling lips.

"How did you find the capital after a month's leave, dear?" Victoria asked timidly, desiring to break the silence.

"I found things much changed," followed Margaret's terse reply, "and not favorably so."

"Most interesting," Victoria said, "I was not aware."

"Oh, that is perhaps why you failed to inform me of your recent happenings?" Margaret continued, her green eyes glinting dangerously. "May it be that I had lost your trust?"

"No, never!" Victoria exclaimed. "Nothing could be further –"

"If I am truly dear to you, why is it, pray tell, the very last courtier gossip knows more of your than I?" Margaret continued. "You have truly become a sensation at court, or have you not noticed?"

"I have noticed," Victoria replied sadly. She now knew the reason for Margaret's foul mood. She had put off confessing to her most dear friend, for she dreaded this confession. Now it was forced upon her at the moment she was least prepared.

"Why did I have to bear hearing the news of you from the lips of those overdressed fools and not from your own? Why did I have to hear my dear friend called a whore before I made it across the entrance hall?"

Victoria sighed, averting her eyes from Margaret's furious gaze.

"I thought you would think less of me," she confessed quietly.

"And rightfully so!" Margaret cried as this admission seemed to have spurred on. "What had possessed you to do such a thing? Have you lost your mind?"

"But you have told me –" Victoria began, before Margaret forcefully cut her off.

"_I_ have told you?" she cried. "Pray tell, what exactly have I told you? Did I indeed tell you to seek out a married man and share his bed? If I have told you so, than I am sorry indeed, for I have done poorly as your friend."

"Please, Margaret, you must not –" Victoria pleaded.

"I have told you to try and find a man," Margaret continued hotly, "of kind nature and of decent means, to befriend him, so he might take note of your character and in time ask for your hand. And who is it that you found? He is rich, I give him that, but for pity's sake, he is old enough to have fathered you!"

Victoria tried her best to edge in a word, yet Margaret would not let her.

"He's married, what's more!" she said, jumping off her seat and starting to pace like an angered tigress. "Have you the plans to be his second wife, once he does away with his first?"

"He would never –" Victoria gasped in horror.

"_He would never?_" Margaret turned on her. "Why, I think he would. Do you go about with your ears shut? It would not be the first time he had killed in cold blood."

"You do not know him!" Victoria contradicted. While meekly accepting criticism directed at her own person, she could not tolerate harsh words addressed towards one she loved.

"And you do?" Margaret asked, rounding on her. "The greatest minds of England, as well as abroad, try to fathom the depth of Walsingham's mind. They have all surely gone daft, for the secret that eluded them, was discovered by a mere girl. Praise be to the Lord, it is a miracle indeed."

"I would never claim to know him fully," Victoria said, "yet I know enough to assure you that he is not a monster, like everyone supposes him to be. He is a man with of great power and intelligence, but a man still."

"A man who has the means to snuff out your life upon the first suspicion he has," Margaret cried, "or simply because you had heard something you were not meant to hear. He is not a man, but a demon. Death follows him and sooner or later it strikes anyone he had touched."

"What better death can one wish for?" Victoria whispered.

Upon hearing this admission, Margaret froze.

"What did you say?" she whispered, forgetting in her horror that she meant to be angry.

"I meant to die sooner," Victoria looked up, "yet I had not the courage. If I die by his hand, I shall be spared the sin of taking my own life and I shall be spared the life of loneliness which I can not bear. I see no loss and no crime."

Margaret's eyes were open wide as she heard her friend speak. Her expression was the one reserved for the people who had lost their mind.

"I am no fool," Victoria continued. "I know he has no love for me. He has no heart for anything but his duty. I do not ask that of him. I know that he shall never love me as surely as I know that I am meant to live my life alone. You, who have a husband that adores you, how can you judge _me_, who shall die unwed and childless in a poorhouse, upon a cold bed? When I die, by whichever means, I wish to have at least one thing I held dear: that I had loved. Do you begrudge me wanting that?"

For the longest moment, the two friends faced each other wordlessly, before the unthinkable happened. Margaret's eyes dropped, as she could not tolerate to look at Victoria.

"You love him?" Margaret spoke at last. "You have surely lost your mind."

"Perhaps," Victoria replied, "but if I were sane, I would be long gone. No person in their sound mind would expect any good to come of a life like mine. Loneliness, dear, is the worst sentence that could have ever been awarded to me. I would prefer bodily torture over it. I know it is my cross to bear, yet I live solely because hope in my heart refuses to wane. I am insane indeed, yet because of it I continue to live."

Margaret heaved a sigh, slowly, as a person who had much to say, yet recognized her defeat. Victoria looked away at the window, where the sun gilded the windowsill. With another sigh, Margaret came to Victoria's side. As she sat down next to her friend, Margaret lifted the skirt of her dress in order to access the pocket concealed in her petticoats.

"There," Margaret said shortly, her tone still stern, yet absent of the former anger, as she pushed a small flask into Victoria's hand. It was full of liquid, pond-green in color. Victoria needed not to ask what it was. She had seen plenty of it in her day.

"I can not take it," she said quietly, extending her hand to return the bottle. "They make me ill."

Margaret looked at her friend, her chiseled nostrils flaring once more.

"Take it!" she ordered sharply, pushing the flask back towards Victoria's chest. "Take it at least to repay me for the indignity I had to endure in order to obtain it. You know as well as I," Margaret continued, shaking her beautiful head, "that as soon as you conceive, he shall send you away, like all wealthy men do, and forget your very name. Take it, you fool, if it is your wish to be around him awhile longer!"

Victoria accepted the bottle numbly, not a second before the tears she long held back slid down her cheeks. Her one palm wrapped around the bottle, she covered her eyes with another, as she cried in silence. The sound of Victoria's sobs had at last breached Margaret's defenses. She moved closer to Victoria, flinging her hands around her friend.

"Oh, please forgive me, dearest, I meant not to be harsh," she whispered as her eyes moistened as well. "It was wrong of me to chastise you. In my fear of loosing you, I have lost my better judgment… I love you more than I would a sister. I would rather have you cry over my grave before I cry over yours."

Victoria said nothing, yet her head dropped to Margaret's shoulder in a mute acceptance of her friend's apology. Margaret smiled faintly, hugging her friend to her bosom.

"Do you swear to take the medicine?" Margaret asked, as she felt Victoria calm.

"As long as it agrees with me," Victoria replied, sniffling. "Otherwise, it shall go straight into a flowerpot."

"If it was your flowerpot he was after," Margaret said with a laugh, "I would lose no sleep over it."

Victoria laughed in reply. Relieved that the worst had passed, Margaret kissed Victoria's cheek. They did not quarrel often and when they did, they made up fast, just like they did now. Not five minutes had passed before they sat side by side, holding hands as if they both were no older than seven.

"Love him if you wish, but fear him as well," Margaret implored. "Walsingham is not to be toyed with. It is nothing for him to take a life, 'tis a fact commonly known. Should you displease him or encourage misgiving in any way your life will be forfeit."

"Speak not of such things, dearest," Victoria replied "All shall be well. I shall do as you bid, but I must say this for him: he is charming, gracious and has much more goodness in him than people give him credit for."

Margaret shook her head.

"I shall not be able to convince you out of it then?" she asked, looking at Victoria.

"I fear not," Victoria replied, heaving a sigh, yet smiling.

"Than do as you wish, dearest," Margaret spoke, "and so help you God."

"I had never the reason to doubt God's mercy," Victoria said, "it is yours I am after. Now, more than anything, I need my dear friend by my side."

"And you shall always have her," Margaret said, sealing this declaration with a kiss atop Victoria's head.

Victoria laughed, hugging Margaret again.

"Now then," Margaret cried, "as this is done and over with, we have other things to attend to. Let us get you ready, you are nearly late!"

**~o~**


	10. Chapter 10

**~o~**

With a loud chirp, a robust brown sparrow landed triumphantly on the windowsill. Briefly, it ruffled its feathers, eager to enjoy the rising of the sun and warmth that accompanied it. Then, it proceeded to poke around busily, managing to scavenge a few dozy bugs from between the bricks. Making a quick meal of its catch, the sparrow let out one of its best trills, clearly wishing to make it known to all that it was quite pleased with its life at the moment…

Inside the room behind that very window, Lady Victoria slowly opened her eyes. She had been balancing precariously on the brink between slumber and wakefulness for the past quarter of an hour and the sparrow's enthusiastic twittering had roused her completely.

Rubbing her eyes, she turned her head to the side where her paramour still slept. Only in these rare moments this humble seamstress allowed herself to study, at length, the face of Sir Francis Walsingham. Victoria would never dare do it while he was awake. Even though she possessed a clear conscience, she felt his eyes scorch her every time she chanced to meet their gaze. Now, as it was well shielded behind his eyelids, she was able to openly admire the man next to her. In these moments, she could let her mind wonder unimpeded, wondering in the bravest of moments of what it would be like if she were a wife, to do what she did and have a right to it. Yet, Victoria dared not dwell on such thoughts for long, fearing that should she overindulge in them, she would be discovered at once.

It had been near to four months since Sir Francis had allowed Victoria into the smallest corner of his life by permitting her to share his bed. It was, to date, one of the biggest expressions of trust Walsingham had ever bestowed upon another. Still, from time to time, he let a fleeting, sharp look rake over his young mistress. This look felt as though a gust of wind in mid-winter, a wind that could in a second chill its way to the very bone, despite the warm clothing. Even though he never acted openly distrustful, this look was proof enough that he never lost his vigilance. Therefore, every time her unruly mind's eye broke free, Lady York reeled it in firmly, restricting herself to merely admiring the man's features.

While could not be considered absolutely handsome by the conventional standards of these times, Walsingham's face possessed the sort of enigmatic attraction. For the umpteenth time, Victoria's eyes slid over the arches of his eyebrows, the steep, striking curve of his nose, the cheeks, lined with more burdens than she could conceive of, and finally delicately outlined lips, framed by the slightly tousled moustache and beard. Knowing that she had mere minutes before the spymaster's eyes opened, Victoria used these minutes to steal all the glances she wished…

Slight movement by her side summoned Victoria back to the world at hand. A light sigh indicated that the man who lay next to her had just awakened from a restful sleep. Walsingham's hand, draped around the waist of his female companion, contracted, pulling Victoria even closer towards him.

"Victoria, dear," Sir Francs murmured in her ear as he stroked her stomach, "I must confess that you are getting ever better, my child. Clearly, my time had not been lost in vain."

"Oh, my Lord," Victoria spoke, stroking his hand that now lay atop her hip, "you are too kind."

"Not at all, dear girl," Walsingham contradicted. "What, pray tell, am I to gain by lying to you?"

This was a question only in part. Indeed, it was more of a statement, plain and simple. Sir Francis had no need to seek refuge in flattery, which was nearly always required to keep the lady content and willing. In this case, Victoria was the one dependent upon his graces, which left him free to be utterly truthful. Having been by his side for some time, it took Victoria but a minute to grasp the spymaster's true meaning.

"Nothing, truly," Lady York sighed, her smile waning somewhat. Statements of this sort were generally as close as he ever came to telling her off.

"Come now, dear," Walsingham laughed, "take it not this way. Is it not a common grievance among the fairer sex that men deal in lies? Does it not please you that I am nothing but direct with you?"

For a moment, but only just, Victoria remained motionless, her stare fixed on the embellished surface of the pillow. She was but a toy for a nobleman, and as such, she led an uncertain life. Investing her heart in this matter was most imprudent, yet it was something she could not help. Indeed, Victoria had no one but herself to blame for the sudden heartache his words have induced. Walsingham had never done anything to nurture a false hope within her. In one second's time, Victoria had rallied her spirits to do exactly the thing she had grown accustomed to doing each and every time such need arose. She told herself that she had, volitionally, accepted Walsingham's arrangement and had no right to contest it. Every moment in his company was to be accepted with gratitude. Moodiness would only cut her time shorter… Having decided that, Victoria willed herself from her trance. Rolling to her side, she faced the spymaster.

"It does, my Lord," she replied quietly, her fingers running through his beard as she stroked his face gently, "it pleases me greatly."

Walsingham gave her a small smile before pulling her in for a kiss. He fancied the way her body would turn soft and pliable each time she sensed his desire. It was early still; they lay intertwined between the sheets, with not a stitch on them. Sir Francis could not see a single reason why he could not give into temptation just once more…

There was no reason indeed, not until a knock came on the door. The knock was urgent, yet quiet, as though begging forgiveness for having to intrude upon the ones in the bedchamber. So quiet, in fact, it made Victoria look up worriedly as Walsingham broke the kiss with an unusual abruptness.

"My Lord?" she inquired timidly, seeing his eyes harden momentarily.

"Cover up," Walsingham ordered her shortly. Promptly the woman drew the covers about her, concealing the body that was only for her master to see.

"Enter," Sir Francis ordered, raising his voice. As in control of his emotions as he was, the spymaster could not help a slight edge in his voice. All his servants were strictly instructed against disturbing their master while in a company of a lady. Going against this order could only mean that there was a profound enough reason to do so.

Walsingham's suspicions were further confirmed by Jerome, as the boy entered the room cautiously. The lad looked supremely uncomfortable, yet resolute; the look on his face spoke plainly that he would rather be facing a pit-full of ravenous lions than his master, interrupted as he lay with his mistress.

_"__Qu'est-ce que c'est?__"_**_* _**Walsingham asked, raising himself on the elbow. Knowing that Victoria knew little to no French, he addressed the boy in his native tongue.

_"__Sir __Robert __désire __vous __voir, __milord,__"_ Jerome replied. _"__Il affirme que l'affaire est de toute urgence__.__"_**_**_**

_"__Elle doit l'être, en effet__,__" _Walsingham said. _"__Dites-lui que je le verrai incessamment__.__"_**_***_**

_"__Oui, __Sir __Francis,__"_**_**** _**Jerome bowed.

Once the boy was gone, Walsingham returned his attention to Victoria, who lay silently by his side, her eyes filled with worry. Despite the fact that she knew no French, she nonetheless caught the urgent tone of the conversation. If the matter was truly serious, Walsingham desired to draw no attention to it. Therefore, his expression softened instantaneously as he looked upon Victoria.

"Alas, my dear," Sir Francis said softly. His hand slid under the covers, cupping Victoria's breast, "affairs of state wait for no man. Regretfully, I have to bid you farewell."

Before Walsingham bent down to lavish several slow kisses upon her full bosom, which he had promptly uncovered, he distinctly saw a shadow of disappointment darken Victoria's face. Nevertheless, he was pleased with his protégée, for she had managed to conceal it well. Walsingham felt her fingers, ever gentle and unchangingly affectionate, run through his hair.

"Worry not," Walsingham spoke once he pulled back, "come what may, I promise I shall find a spot of time for you." He said it intentionally, knowing it to be the only thing which never failed to raise her spirits. In an elated state, induced by a prospect of another meeting, Victoria would be unlikely to give another thought to being so hastily dismissed…

As they helped each other dress, which had long since become their usual pastime, Sir Francis took care to comment on her garment to further improve her mood.

"A truly splendid gown, my dear," Walsingham said, his gaze washing over Victoria's bust, framed by low-cut corsage. "It pleases me a great deal that you have complied fully with my demands."

It was the first time he laid his eyes on this particular dress. No doubt, it was one of the ten he bid her to order. Remaining true to her taste, Victoria had envisioned it to be nearly as modest as her old dresses, relying wholly on the elegance of the fabric. After a long look, Walsingham had to admit that she had made an excellent choice. A thin strip of gold embroidery ran along the hem of the skirt, as well as at the top and bottom of the bodice, further amplified the sheer beauty of emerald silk.

"How could I do otherwise, my Lord?" Victoria said, picking up the final part of her outfit, a diaphanous white scarf, off the floor. While wearing the dress as intended in Walsingham's presence, she took care to cover the low cut of her dress while in public. "My compliance is ever the only thing I have to offer in exchange for your kindness."

"Which is quite enough, I assure you, child," Sir Francis said. "Come, let us waste no more time."

Ushering Victoria into his sitting room, Walsingham saw Sir Robert Beale, who paced to and fro before the fireplace. As always, Beale took little notice of Victoria. Only for the benefit of his patron, Sir Robert offered Victoria a small nod as she curtsied in greeting.

"Run along now, child," Walsingham said, dismissing her. Beale followed Victoria with his eyes as she bowed once more and left.

"You have been forewarned, Francis," Sir Robert said, "that these women are leeches for money. Where, I ask you, would she find enough gold to pay for a new dress, let along a fair few, if she had not received it from you?"

Walsingham noted that even though Beale's words contained the usual measure of sarcasm, his tone remained grave.

"It was nothing to me," the spymaster replied shortly, "as she hardly spent anything. I am sure that two of Lady Kensington's outfits are worth more than a whole ten for this girl. Still, you have come before me, seeking to discuss matters much more weighty than the state of my finances, I am sure."

Beale's jaw twitched grimly.

"Right you are, Francis," he said, extracting a parchment from his pocket.

Even though the letter was written in a coded script, it took Walsingham but a minute to fly through it. After he had finished, the look on his face resembled Beale's.

"Damnation," the spymaster spat softly. "When was it sent?"

"It took the courier a four days' journey," Beale replied at once. "He had neither eaten nor slept, stopping only trice to get a fresh horse."

Even though they were left alone in the room, both men spoke in hushed, urgent voices.

"It means the news was received four days prior," Walsingham counted. "I am assuming so, hoping dearly that this dimwit, Harris, had dispatched a courier immediately."

"He had better," Beale replied, "unless he has grown weary of the weight of his own head."

"All the fires of hell I could possibly unleash on this fellow," Walsingham spoke, "would be of no consequence, shall we be late… Other worries me," he continued, beginning to pace. "Harris is but a proxy, a rushed one at that. I would never have chosen him for the job, had I myself been there. If he, the stuffed goose that he is, had gotten a wind of something or other, it means –"

"– _It __means_," Beale continued, "they now undertake preparations too grand to miss, which would indicate –"

" – That they shall soon act upon their intentions," Walsingham concluded, "supported by many co-conspirators."

Beale nodded.

"When do I leave?" he asked phlegmatically.

"On the morrow," Walsingham replied, "but I shall be the one leaving. I am ever so tired of dealing through another. The situation has become urgent enough to demand my personal involvement."

"What am I to do in your absence?" Beale asked.

"You are to convince everyone that I have merely gone to Hampshire for my health, nothing more," Sir Francis instructed. "Keep a sharp eye about, report of anything worth attention. As for the rest, deal with it as you will, I trust your judgment on that."

"What of the Queen?" Beale asked.

"I am to see her at once," Walsingham said, already half-way to the door, "I doubt Her Majesty will deny me, since my leaving is largely to her benefit. I shall make haste, Robert, yet I doubt it would be prudent to depart tonight. I shall leave in the morning in order to dissipate all possible suspicions. The news in this letter will not remain a mystery for long, but if secrecy is maintained, perhaps it would buy us some time. Yes," Walsingham said thoughtfully, as though remembering something or other, "it would indeed be the best course."

As the door flew open at his approach, Walsingham stopped once more.

"One more thing, my friend," he spoke. "Do keep an eye on Victoria. Women are weak, my friend, even the best of them. Shall she show her weakness in any way, I must know of it."

Beale nodded curtly in reply.

Having delivered his last instructions, Sir Francis turned on his heels and left the room, his dark robes billowing in his wake.

**~o~O~o~**

Having rushed through the palace corridors, Lady Victoria entered her room, swiftly shutting the door behind her. Resting her back against it, the woman attempted to catch her breath.

Even though being dismissed ahead of time did not appeal to her initially, now she was grateful for a chance to be alone. While Victoria understood perfectly that she was in no position to like or dislike, she certainly did not care for Sir Robert Beale. Every time he came to call, she felt his eyes upon her. He did not stare, surely he would not dare in the presence of his master, yet those quick looks he threw her way discomforted her. They were calculating glances, full of lust and superiority, as well as of something else Victoria could not yet make out. Therefore, Lady York was usually quite happy to depart as soon as Sir Robert entered the scene.

After a rather brusque walk, the air in her small room seemed stifling. Closing the latch, Victoria forced herself away from the door. Approaching the window, she threw it open. Lifting her face towards the heavens, Victoria allowed herself to bathe in the sunlight. The last week of April was at an end and these were the very first truly sunny days of the year. The air felt sweet and fragrant. Clouds of bees milled about the flowering fruit trees and shrubs in the palace garden. Pairs of swallows, their sharp little figures silhouetting against the blue sky, pirouetted in midair, racing the breeze.

Breathing in deeply, Victoria closed her eyes. Without a doubt, it was the best remedy for her unsettled stomach. As of late, this unpleasant condition was her constant companion. Alas, this discomfort was the price she had to pay for being at Walsingham's side. Heeding Margaret's advice, Victoria drank a big gulp of the vile green brew every morning after she awoke in the spymaster's bed. To say that the symptoms were unpleasant was to say nothing. Daily, it set her innards on fire, causing her to be violently sick at times. Undesired conception no longer worried her, yet now she feared that Walsingham would smell sick on her lips as he kissed her, even though she took great care to clean her mouth thoroughly with copious amounts of mint water each and every time…

Heaving a sigh, Victoria left the windowsill and approached her bedside. Getting to her knees, she reached under her bed to procure a flask. Oh, how she hated it! Yet, for all her hatred, she was solely dependent upon it. Her lips wrinkled in disgust, she surveyed the contents of the bottle. It was half-empty. She would need to get more soon… Even though Victoria wished nothing more than to run to the window once more and hurl the flask as far as her strength allowed, she uncorked it and took a long draught. The brew burned all the way down her throat. Tears welled up in her eyes as Victoria coughed and gasped for air. This preparation made her suffer, yet she prayed so it would, for once, stay down. Several anxious minutes later, she understood her hope to be futile. Leaping to her feet, she hurried towards the basin that stood at the opposite corner of the room…

**~o~O~o~**

Even though the spymaster's demeanor differed nothing from the usual, no one dared to cross Walsingham's path as he walked towards the Queens's chambers. The courtiers rushed out of the way, glad to let him pass swiftly by and away from their gatherings.

As Walsingham drew near Her Majesty's quarters, he began to hear eager, high-pitched yapping, which grew louder as her drew near. As the two guards uncrossed their halberds to grant him passage, a burst of silvery women's laughter reached his ears. A servant bowed Walsingham in, yet was dismissed promptly by the wave of the spymaster's hand. A frequent guest in the royal quarters, Walsingham certainly did not require an escort or an introduction…

High windows of the main chamber were open, filling the whole room in balmy sunshine. The Queen sat in a in a tall, carved chair, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, who lounged on poufs and pillows around her seat. Elizabeth smiled mercifully, her attention on a tiny white bichon in front of her. The dog's fur was groomed meticulously and it wore a scarlet ribbon about its neck. Lady Janet Gaston, the youngest among the Queen's entourage, played a merry village tune upon a small flute, making the dog dance in circles on its hind legs. When the tune ceased, the dog would continue to spin, yapping to in order to substitute for lack of music.

"Ah, Sir Francis," the Queen spoke when Walsingham entered the room. Even though the spymaster was in the habit of stepping lightly, Elizabeth had long since learned to detect his approach. "Have you come to look at my little Henri? Quite the little artiste, would you not say?"

"Certainly, Madam," Walsingham replied evenly.

"My brother, Charles IX of France, sent me Henri," Elizabeth continued, "to delight me in a moment of peace. My word, what a darling creature!"

Walsingham bowed in agreement, without saying a word. He knew that his somber manner would convey the urgency of his task and therefore would prompt the Queen to grant him an audience in private. Today, however, Her Majesty, either accidentally or on purpose, failed to acknowledge his mute request, seeming to be fully engaged in observing Henri, who had resumed his waltzing.

Truly her father's daughter, Elizabeth tested the spymaster's patience time and time again. The Queen could see plainly that Walsingham wished to speak with her in confidence, and while she surely did not intend on denying him, she made certain that the conversation happened in her own time. Knowing this, Walsingham had enough patience to bide his time, pretending to be mildly interested by the Queen's new plaything. This moment came soon enough, when, at last, the melody ceased and Henri finished his performance with a bow, which caused a storm of applause.

"Bravo!" the Queen laughed, evidently addressing the dog "Bravo, my little jester! You have proved yourself worthy and are now a rightful member of my court. Now, leave us," she continued, addressing the ladies. "Take our guest along and make sure he is welcome."

Lady Gaston tucked the flute away and promptly took Henri up in her arms, as the bichon began sniffing about rather suspiciously. Bowing in unison, the ladies-in-waiting departed at once.

"My compliments on your new pet, Madam," Walsingham said once the Queen and he were left alone. "I daresay, it must be the best visitor we have had from France for quite some time."

Elizabeth smiled crookedly.

"Why do you insist on spurning my dear brother Charles, Walsingham?" she said wryly. "After all, he spared nothing, even his own family, to aid me in search of a husband. He sent his very own brother to a foreign land, only to be so cruelly disappointed."

"Not at all, Madam," Walsingham replied coolly, "for it is not your brother I meant to slight. I daresay that attentiveness to interests of the fairer sex has never been among his virtues. King Charles IX is known as an avid hunter, a poet and even a blacksmith, but never a charmer. Young Elizabeth of Austria, his wife, lives in neglect, so there is little chance the idea was his. The Queen Dowager, on the other hand, whose influence over her second son's rule is only too well known, would be the rightful author of this gift. Be it any other thing, I would have never allowed it before you."

The Queen's smile faltered.

"No matter how merry the sun may shine, you still speak of murder," Elizabeth scoffed, shaking her head.

"Not murder, Madam, but facts," Sir Francis contradicted. "Even the meanest beggar of the streets of Paris is aware of Catherine de' Medici's affinity for apothecary art, particularly one of its areas concerning poisons. Had she sent you a thing inanimate, I would be concerned indeed, for concealing poison in perfumes, crèmes or fine clothing was, is and always shall be the very ace she so aptly pulls out of her sleeve. However, until the time she invents a concoction that would slay one living being and not the other, I shall remain contented. This dog had made a lengthy journey and now is before you, perfectly unharmed; therefore, I conclude that it holds no more than a few tricks. Once you see them all, the gift will grow dull, just as Catherine's constant attempts to amuse you. Under her saccharine veneer, the old Medici must be incensed, for her son's failed suit had ruined her hopes for extending one of her long hands across the Dower Strait."

"It is not a fault of mine," the Queen remarked with a smile, "that her dear son was not interested in a match of my gender."

"Oh, I believe he _was_ interested, Madam," Walsingham replied, "interested in anything that wore a skirt, whether it did so rightfully or for a mere fancy's sake."

The Queen laughed shortly. The spymaster's crisp wit never failed to delight her.

"What was it that you wanted, Walsingham?" she asked, smiling still.

"No more than your permission for a leave of absence, Madam," Sir Francis said with a slight bow. "My frail health bids me to do so."

As Walsingham spoke, he handed the Queen a note, sealed with his crest. Elizabeth shot the spymaster a quizzical look before breaking it open. As she read the three sentences written in Walsingham's swift, elegant script, the color, brought forth by the recent merriment, drained from her cheeks.

"Truly?" she whispered, her thoughts immediately drawn to the content of the note.

"Indeed so," Walsingham replied calmly. "My physician has assured me of the _seriousness__of__the__situation_, warning me to take special care before the hour grows late. Do I have your permission?"

While the spymaster spoke about maters obvious at superfluous examination, the Queen had promptly detected the double meaning of his words.

"Yes," the Queen breathed out as she re-read the contents the note, "go at once. Do whatever needs be done. But what, might I ask, is the need for putting your request in writing?" the Queen raised her gaze to meet Walsingham's.

"Spoken words, Majesty," Walsingham replied, taking the paper from the Queen's hands, "are most hard to control once they escape, for they often reach the wrong ears along with the ones they were intended for. If they are written, however, their freedom is limited by paper and thus they are safely confined."

As he spoke, Sir Francis made his way to the hearth. There, he stood still for a brief moment, one of his slender white hands resting upon the marble mantelpiece. Two sparks of orange danced in the spymaster's blue eyes as he observed the fire.

"A written word can be just as perfidious as the one that is spoken," Elisabeth said.

"Not if it is checked in time," Walsingham said, throwing the note into the heart of the blaze. The parchment became engulfed in flames and was nothing but ash a second later.

"Everywhere you look, you see deception," Elizabeth spoke, standing up abruptly.

"That is why I am yet to fail you, Majesty," followed the spymaster's terse reply.

**~o~O~o~**

When time is overlooked due to many cares, it tends to hasten its pace. Thus, the day was soon gone and the evening had dawned rapidly. Crickets, persuaded out of hiding by an unusually warm day, now took the gardens by storm. His window ajar against the evening warmth, Walsingham stood by his desk, packing his traveling attaché case. The modestly gilded leather and a triple silk lining of the case protected the documents from moisture and dust. Having made sure that everything of need was safely inside, Sir Francis lowered into his chair, allowing himself a brief respite.

As of this moment, he was ready. Care has been taken so none but four people, himself included, knew of the true destination of his voyage. Jerome, his faithful shadow, was to come along with him. The other two, the Queen and Sir Robert, were sure to adhere to secrecy. In the midday, he had sent a note to his wife, informing her of his leave. Now, Lady Ursula was just as convinced as the rest of the court of her husband's desire to retreat to Hampshire. It was quite a safe excuse, since Sir Francis knew that even though Lady Walsingham greatly preferred their Hampshire estate, she would never want to journey there if her visit coincided with his. There was, however, one more person who needed convincing…

After a minute's deliberation, the spymaster decided to extend Victoria his nightly invitation. Quite understandably, he had forgotten all about her earlier today. When, at last, Sir Francis remembered the promise he had given her, he concluded that Victoria's company might be of use to him. This woman's presence would act as a perfect cover. No man, who needs to depart suddenly and whose mind is occupied by weighty matters, would consider spending a leisurely evening in with his mistress. Let those who care to watch, see that the spymaster had absolutely no urgent business to attend to.

Victoria herself also needed to be considered. She was but a simple girl, yet she long since proved to have a right sharp mind. She must have, no doubt, noticed the urgency of the situation. Before he was to depart, Walsingham wished to put the girl's mind at ease, as well use her company to persuade others…

Finally, while His Grace was a man second to none, he remained but a man. As he departed, Walsingham had to leave behind the comforts of home. In the end, Victoria was just that, one out of many luxuries his wealth and position could provide. Realizing that he would most likely have to spend a month without, Sir Francis decided to indulge one last time before the road. Smiling lightly to himself, Walsingham summoned Jerome, ordering the boy to go and fetch Lady Victoria at once.

**~o~O~o~**

"My Lady York," Walsingham greeted Victoria, as she stepped through his sitting room door.

"Your Grace," Victoria bowed. Even in the darkened room, it was obvious that she was pleased. Being called upon often never failed to delight her. It was plain that Victoria had dressed for the occasion, since she now wore what was obviously one of her best new gowns, made of maroon silk and adorned with a fair amount of silver trim.

"I trust your day went well?" Walsingham asked, handing her a goblet of vine. Sir Francis, who had possessed a fondness for fine vines, had aptly passed this vice of his unto his young protégée. Not so long ago, Victoria would have refused it, yet now she demurely accepted the vine.

"Every day is a blessing, my Lord," she said quietly after taking a sip from her cup. "One merely needs to learn to see it as such."

"Are you among the learned few?" Sir Francis chuckled.

"Your every call makes me more and more one of their number," Victoria replied, meeting his gaze. Her blue eyes sparked ephemerally in the candlelight.

"I do hope dearly that what I intend on telling you does not strike you from their midst," Walsingham spoke. Victoria gave him yet another look, filled with easily detectible concern. "I am to leave London for a while."

Sir Francis knew exactly what she so desperately wished to know, yet would never dare ask.

"As you know, dear," Sir Francis continued, "I am not a young man. My health is brittle and is made worse still by the burdens of state. My physician insisted I take leave, which is exactly my intention. I shall depart on the morn."

Victoria's eyebrows trembled pitifully as her eyes searched his face.

"H-how long will you be gone, my Lord?" she asked quietly.

"I shall return as soon as my physician declares me well," Walsingham replied.

While Walsingham could clearly see disappointment on her features, it was mixed with a great deal of worry.

"I hope that your retreat shall be of most benefit to your cause," she spoke at last. "Health is a precious asset, my Lord. Yours, I daresay, does not belong to you alone."

As Victoria spoke, her small hand touched his cheek gently. Looking down on her, Walsingham thought that perhaps in the entire city of London, this young seamstress was the only one who would truly lament his absence… But, after all, why would he care?

"I have summoned you, Lady Victoria," Sir Francis said, setting his own glass on the table, "to say my farewells. While I regret to see you leave empty-handed tonight, I have very little time. Regretfully, I must ask you to relieve me of my promise."

At this declaration, Victoria heaved a small sigh. It would have gone unnoticed, were it not for the cut of her dress. Even the smallest breath made by a woman, immediately rippled the two tender mounds of flesh, laced into the tight bodice.

"Can you not spare a minute?" she asked quietly, her eyes lowered.

Walsingham raised his eyebrows, impressed. This was new. Never had she dared to make requests on his time before. Every time, she accepted his arrangement without a word of protest. Yet, for the past four months, Sir Francis watched her slowly grow braver in his company. He was pleased, since her bold request fell perfectly in line with his plans. He had her right where he wanted her.

"As I said, I do not have much time," Walsingham shook his head, confidently carrying on with his game, "there are great many things that need be done before I depart... But then again," Walsingham interrupted himself, making the best show of having remembered something, "there is one thing you could do for me. I doubt it would interest you, child, yet I still feel obliged to mention it…"

"Anything, my Lord!" Victoria exclaimed, so obviously delighted, it drew a smile from the spymaster.

"Anything, dear?" Sir Francis asked slyly, raising an eyebrow.

**~o~O~o~**

The bath chamber was dimly lit. It was a fairly small room with a high domed ceiling and a single narrow window, which encouraged a remarkable likeness to an inside of a tower. Indeed, it was located in one of the many corners of the Whitehall Palace. The stone on the walls adopted a reddish tinge in the flickering candlelight. A grate in one of the corners held a roaring fire which was the sole source of warmth within the stone bowels of the old palace…

Walsingham sat reclined in big round basin of carved wood, which stood in the middle of the room. It was large enough for him to stretch comfortably, while his hands rested leisurely on its edges.

The spymaster turned his head lightly at the familiar rustling of the skirts. Not a second later, Victoria entered the chamber, carrying a clay pitcher of hot water. She smiled coyly at him before emptying the pitcher into his basin.

A task of drawing a man's bath was both an honor and an insult. While it might have been unbecoming for lady of breeding to assist a man while he bathed, it was an honor for a mistress, who was repeatedly required to commit acts of ultimate servitude.

"Stay awhile, my Lady," Walsingham ordered softly, catching her hand as she turned to leave.

Victoria obeyed, kneeling beside the basin. Putting the pitcher aside, she folded her arms on the basin's edge and laid her head upon them. Walsingham immediately noted her deliberate attempts to stop her eyes from straying any lower than his shoulders. Truly, her innocence delighted him! However, what delighted him even more was robbing her of it, bit by bit.

"You blush, child," he spoke, stroking her hair lightly. "What is it that makes you so uncomfortable? Have you not seen a man undressed?"

"I was always taught that, should such situation arise, a fine woman should avert her eyes," Victoria replied. "Staring would be a thing most indecorous in such circumstances."

"And a fine woman you are. Yet, it seems that your mind finds it hard to struggle with the demands of your eyes," Sir Francis chuckled, seeing Victoria blush even harder.

"I see no harm if you were to _stare_ just a little," he said, looking straight into her eyes. Walsingham knew so well how to bend a woman to his will by the power of a single glance alone. He also perceived that any minute now, her curiosity was due to overflow the boundaries of her reason. Yes, she might have looked away dutifully every time he bared himself before her, but she will not today.

"A lady would not dare step over the limits of propriety," Victoria whispered.

"How true," Sir Francis said. "However, to my knowledge, the act of _staring_, which propriety cautions you against, could very easily be transformed into an act of _looking_, provided that permission has been obtained."

Having spoken, Walsingham watched amusedly as the doe of her reason struggled against the web he had woven of his clever words.

"You have my permission," he said, skillfully tipping the scales.

Blushing even more, Victoria hesitantly obeyed him. Sir Francis watched her eyes roam over his chest and stomach, making slow but sure progress towards the object that surely drew her utmost curiosity. Her eyes widened inadvertently as they had finally reached the scepter of his manhood, set amidst the dark curls.

Drawing a sharp breath, Victoria looked up.

"F-forgive me," she stammered, her chest heaving. "I should not have…"

Taking her by the hand, Walsingham slowly planted a few small, scalding kisses upon her trembling fingertips.

"Come take a bath with me," he whispered, in a voice that undoubtedly Lucifer himself once used to beguile the poor Eve.

"N-no, I could not possibly," Victoria resisted weakly.

With a small smile, the spymaster shifted closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"I shall not take kindly to refusal, my dear," Walsingham whispered, his arm firmly about her. "Give me your word that you shall join me this instant and I shall allow you to disrobe. If you decline, I shall have to drag you in, dress and all and it would be a shame indeed to ruin something as fine."

For a moment, Victoria looked as though she wished nothing better than to plead with him to reconsider. But the spark of lust he had planted within her at their first meeting would not be ignored, and its loud demands were quick to drown out those of her weakening good sense. Poor thing, Walsingham thought, does she not know that he had already won?

"You have my word," Victoria spoke finally. With a scoff, Sir Francis he released her.

"Oh no," Walsingham said as she turned to leave. "Here and here only, my Lady."

Her cheeks glowing with bright scarlet and her eyes lowered, Victoria began to unlace her bodice. As one after the other, the items of her clothing fell to the floor, Walsingham let out a slow exhalation of delight. Even though she was little more than one of many assets in his estate, there was no denying her youth and beauty. Having found this angel, dazed and lost in the pits of hell, this old demon clamed her for his own, taking pleasure in his sole possession of her pure body.

"This as well," Sir Francis said when he saw her approach the basin, wearing nothing but her shift. "As long as you claim to deal in a realm of propriety, it would be most improper for the guest to upstage the host by coming overdressed."

Victoria raised her eyebrows beseechingly, but understood promptly that Walsingham had no interest in negotiating. Untying a thread, Victoria pulled at the neck hole. As it grew wide enough, the garment slid down her body to the floor.

"There, much better," Walsingham said, offering her a hand as she stepped into the basin. "Come, my child," he invited, pulling her to sit by him.

Tipping Victoria's head up by the chin, the spymaster pierced her with one of his magnetic, mind-addling looks.

"Is this to your liking?" he asked quietly.

"Quite," Victoria replied, her eyes rapt on his.

The spymaster smiled, before placing a gentle kiss on her lips.

"Let this be a lesson to you, my Lady," Walsingham said, "so in the future, you would always heed my advice."

At last, Victoria smiled. Water dripping from her fingers, she raised her hand to touch his face. So very sweet and tender, she leaned in closer to kiss him, her full breasts pressing onto his chest. In her innocence, how could she know of all the things Sir Francis was capable of doing to a woman? How could she know that, at this very moment, he would like nothing better than to take her all at once, hard enough to draw out a scream? Yet Victoria knew nothing, since Walsingham had never attempted to treat her in a way he would a common whore. Deep inside him still lived a respect a man of high birth is taught to show every good woman. Because of that respect, Walsingham had largely spared her purity, even though he indulged in picking away at it from time to time. No matter, gentle as he may, he shall have her tonight and nothing could stop that.

As she kissed him, Walsingham took Victoria's hand and steered it lower and lower, placing it on the very object Victoria had earlier found to be so intriguing. She faltered, looking up at him.

"You have confessed your curiosity to me," Sir Francis reminded her, "for which there is but one remedy: one must employ all their senses to satisfy it. We have covered the sight just before, so let us now proceed to the touch," he murmured, closing her palm around his manhood and than guiding it up and down to show her what was to be done.

Again, he marveled at how quick she was to learn. Once more, Walsingham reclined in the basin, his hands draped over its edges, soaking up the warmth of the water and the pleasure Victoria elicited by stroking his length.

"Have I done well satisfying your curiosity, child?" Walsingham asked after a time.

"Yes, my Lord," Victoria breathed out. The blush was back on her cheeks, yet this time it was due to entirely different cause. The woman's chest rose with rapid breath as her eyes stay fixed on the spymaster's face.

"Every life begins so, dear," Walsingham joked with a crooked smile. Despite the fact that he had excelled at containing his carnal excitement, Sir Francis was forced to admit that her ministrations had rendered him slightly breathless as well, "with no poetry or music, but with a simple _hard_ medical fact... Enough lessons, dear," he caught her hand, bringing it to the surface. "It is likely that I shall be gone a long while, long enough, in fact, to feel that I owe you a parting gift. Is there anything that you wish, child?"

Before she uttered a single word, Walsingham was able to read the answer in her eyes that spoke, nay, screamed the answer back at him.

"I wish to be yours," Victoria whispered.

"It shall be my pleasure to grant you such a wish," Walsingham replied, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her astride his lap…

**~o~O~o~**

As it happened many times before, both Walsingham and Victoria greeted the witching hour of the night sleepless. Yet after all the exertions of a long, hot bath, along with all its pleasurable trimmings, a sensation of delightful exhaustion had set in.

The clock struck one when Victoria had rolled to her side, resting her head on Walsingham's chest. Even though they lay together, upon the clean, fragrant linen sheets, the thoughts of the two dwelled on the entirely different matters.

Mere hours before departure, Walsingham's mind was already dwelling on the task before him. While the spymaster was well aware of the situation at hand, due to a poor choice of an informant, Sir Francis felt as though he knew very little about the finer details involved. He also knew that once he arrives, acquiring them would be of supreme importance. Mentally, he chastised human ineptness, which was capable of quashing the best of efforts. His agent's incompetence had rendered him near blind at the very moment precision was needed. However, there could be no excuses. He shall go forth and do whatever needed to be done… Regardless of what had gone on in his mind, it never reflected upon his face. Nothing could be suspected by looking at his face, calm and expressionless. Fire, flickering in the grate, reflected in his half-closed, strangely unfocused eyes…

Yet, it was no task at all to discern the thoughts of the young woman next to him. In the semidarkness, Victoria no longer bothered concealing her feelings. While she rested her head on his chest, sadness was written upon her features. Over the length of these four months, this man had become her whole life and now he was leaving… Fear, sorrow and even jealousy (for she was only a woman) ruled her heart, for she knew that he was under no obligations to be faithful to her. Surely, Walsingham would return to the capital before long, for he was always much needed there, yet for her he could be gone for eternity. Therefore, Victoria clung to him now, desperately hoping to somehow get the fill of the man's warmth, just in case this night was her last…

Another hour must have passed before one of them has stirred. Sighing lightly, Walsingham ran a hand across Victoria's back.

"Awake, are you, dear?" he spoke gently.

"Yes, my Lord," she replied.

"I shall be gone early on the morrow," Sir Francis said, "so, perhaps, the time is right for me to bid you farewell. May I hope that, upon my homecoming, you shall remain where I left you?"

Victoria rose to look into Walsingham's eyes.

"My life is here, my Lord, right by your side," she said with quiet resolution. "It is no longer mine. Unless Lord God chooses to claim it, it shall always belong to you."

Walsingham shook his head with a sad smile.

"What is it that keeps you by my side, child?" he asked, gently caressing Victoria's face.

"Do you not know?" the woman whispered.

"I do not," Sir Francis replied, "for I have never loved and most likely never will."

Victoria's eyes darkened as she looked away.

"Does it upset you, my child," Sir Francis asked, peering at her searchingly, "to know that your affections would never be answered?"

"No, my Lord, never," Victoria replied simply. "You can have my body, my mind and my soul and it still would not be enough to repay for what you have done for me."

Walsingham did not reply. What could he say in return to such an admission? A female heart thrives on nothing, but emotions and illusions of all kinds; solid, cold rationale and reality of it all would do nothing but wither it. In exchange to all the favors Victoria provided for him, he could at least allow her to dwell in her dreams undisturbed…

Gently, he smoothed Victoria's hair as she lay her head back down on his chest. Listening to his heart, Walsingham remembered, how very peculiar indeed…

The candles waned in their holders. One, and then the other, flickered and expired.

"You shall be greatly missed," he heard her say quietly.

Lost in thought yet again, Sir Francis ran his slender palm absentmindedly down her back…

**~o~**

_This is a translation of the dialogue spoken in French, done by my excellent friend Belphegor:_

_* "What is it?"_

_** "Sir Robert wishes to see you, my Lord. He insists it to be a most urgent matter."_

_*** "Indeed it must be. Tell him I shall be with him shortly."_

_**** "Yes, Sir Francis."_


End file.
